


Artificer & 'Phile

by anamatics



Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: Alternate Ending, Alternate Universe - Canon, Developing Relationship, Ensemble Cast, F/F, Romance, Season 2 spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-14
Updated: 2011-11-16
Packaged: 2017-10-26 02:23:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 62,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/277584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anamatics/pseuds/anamatics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Myka is not currently a secret service agent.  She has the credentials but after Denver she needed to get away from the bad memories.  So at 29, she takes a leave of absence and is presently an associate professor at Hudson University, a totally made up college in NYC.  She studies and teaches 19th century literature and teaches one class every semester on early science fiction and fantasy.  It is her most popular class.  Circumstances and a few twists of fate lead her back to the Warehouse, because some things are set in stone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prelude - To Another World

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'ed by Spockette

You wake up in another world, darker, more mechanical. You can feel it in your bones as kind; warm hands catch you as you tumble out of bronze. 

 

You did not anticipate ever awakening again, and the fear of the moment grips you.  A gentle voice leads you patiently out of a labyrinthine enclosure, what can only be the Warehouse.  You sense its hatred for you even now, what has to be years after you wronged it.  You don’t smell apples; you don’t feel content.  Everything puts you ill at ease.  You don’t have much time, there’s fighting and the startling (and oh so loud) boom of an explosion.

 

Your feet feel leaden under you, each step a laborious process that reminds you how long you were trapped inside your own head, inside your own thoughts.  You’ve plotted novels, revenge, served it cold and tried to undo it; time and time again.

 

There is another voice now, this one gruff, English, familiar.  You can hear just enough of a variation in his near-perfect usage to know that he is probably not a Londoner, but that’s as far as your memory will take you.  Your head is reeling from the uncertainty of it all, from the shock of being _alive_ again.  It hurts; you can’t even think everything is so loud.

 

Its dark, your eyes hurt even under the blanket covering you.  There’s a low rumble, a gentle lull as you feel yourself begin to move, away, faster than you’ve ever gone before. 

 

“You are going to help me change the world,” The man says, his voice is quiet, almost angst-ridden.  You wonder what he’s done to fill him with such sorrow.

 

You want to respond, but the words will not emerge from within you.  You wonder if you will be like this forever.  You don’t want that.  And besides, this is just the first step of the puzzle.  The rest will come later, when you’ve had time to evaluate this man further, to see how he fits into the grand scheme of things.

 

Somewhere nearby, you have a feeling that they are watching you. 

 

* * *

 

 

They see you settle down deeper into the seat that you’ve been bundled into and they wonder what your purpose here is.  There is no way that James MacPherson could know what you could do to this world, no one could truly know.  They could not foresee your plot arching quite this far in advance.  They’re cautious, as always.  You know that they will be.  They think they are in control, but they are so easily corruptible, it is almost comical.

 

Your revenge will be at its best.

 

The Warehouse is going to need a second investigative agent, and soon.  It was a foolish and inadvisable venture to go to using only a single agent, but the perfect partner for him was not ready at the time when he needed the Warehouse.

 

She is not quite ready now.

 

Time will heal all wounds, no matter how great or how small.  And yet, there is a disturbance in the natural flow of things.  Events set into motion faster than anticipated.

 

They turn as one and head into nothingness; this requires looking into.


	2. The Tinkerer - Or, What Happened In The Classics Section

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Myka's chair is stolen and introductions are made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'ed by Spockette

There was a woman in her refuge. Or rather, there was someone sitting in her favorite chair against the window at the bookshop that she’d been frequenting for a year and a half now. That chair had been her sanctuary, a place where she could truly get away to think and Myka Bering was having none of someone else being in her chair.

While she was not above throwing her hands up in the air and simply giving in to the fact that someone had gotten to her spot first, there was something about the woman that currently occupied her chair that gave Myka pause. She had dark hair pulled up into a messy bun and aristocratic features that seemed to be rather deeply absorbed in what appeared to be an Ancient Greek reproduction of _The Odyssey._ Myka was keeping her distance, squinting at the title, but she’d read it in school (as well as more recently when trying to draw inspiration from Homer) and she would not mistake those letters anywhere.

To read it in its original Greek was a noble endeavor, Myka thought, settling herself down on the armchair opposite and pulling the latest stack of essays to grade out of her messenger bag. These were the ones that she was secretly looking forward to, the essays from her class on early science fiction and fantasy – this particular essay was on _Frankenstein_ and how Mary Shelley managed to integrate such a convincing narrative into such a fantastic tale. There were a few key points that she was looking for, but the subject of this particular paper was fairly open-ended.

She sucked on the back of her pen for a moment, getting her things situated as quietly as possible as she could in the small and dusty bookstore just inside the East Village. The larger bookstores still made her a bit jumpy – too many memories of everything horrible that had happened before, in that other life that she tried desperately to never think of.

 _Sam…_ He came unbidden to her mind, as always. The reason she couldn’t stand her life’s calling any more, the reason she was in New York and not Washington. Sam had died and she’d quit, taken the degrees that she’d earned before _that_ disaster and found herself a teaching position in New York City, far away from the bad memories of Denver and the US Secret Service.

(Myka supposed that she should be charitable and elaborate that she had not _quit_ , because no Bering does that, but instead took an extended leave of absence to collect herself and heal the deep wounds in her heart.)

What was it that they always said? _Those who cannot do, teach._

And that was exactly what Myka was doing. Teaching, educating the future generation in the wise ways of old. Her position as an associate professor was tenuous; she really had no interest or drive to become tenured, and Myka liked it that way. It was for the best, this was her time to heal.

Everyone she worked with knew that her situation was temporary at best.

The woman in her chair shifted, lowering the book to reveal intense dark eyes. Not that Myka was staring at her or anything.

Myka dropped her pen.

“Sorry, did I startle you?” She spoke in a cultured accent, British and probably as well-educated as they come, given her choice of reading material.

Her cheeks flushed and Myka shook her head, watching as the woman uncurled herself from the book and bent to catch the pen before it rolled further under her chair and vanished behind the radiator to be lost forever.

“No, not at all,” Myka said, her tone as carefully aloof as she could arrange it. She leaned forward and accepted the pen as the woman held it out to her. Their fingers brushed and Myka pulled her hand away quickly, the woman’s skin was hot to the touch.

Almost unnaturally so.

Myka tucked the pen behind her ear, smoothing curly locks back into place and smiling at the woman. “Pretty heavy reading there,” she commented, gesturing to the book.

“I prefer it. So much is lost in translation,” There was an almost whimsical tone in her voice as she spoke, like one caught up in a fantasy of a time long past. It was intriguing, so different from the usual people that Myka met in this bookstore; and far more engaged.

She nodded her agreement. So much was lost in the translation of all the great works of the past. She had been stressing that to her students this past week after they complained about the numerous annotations to the copy of _Around the World in Eighty Days_ that they were next slated to read on the syllabus. Myka had not had the heart to tell them then that if she had her way, they’d read it in the original French and enjoy it far more.

The woman shrugged and placed her finger carefully in the book to mark her place. “Do you often come here?”

Myka nodded, she didn’t see the harm in talking to this intriguing woman. People in New York were, as a rule, as unfriendly as they come. Myka was an outsider, from the plains and the Rockies and far from home. Her college years had been spent on the East Coast, but she did not talk like them, or blend in as well as she would have liked. It made her stick out like a sore thumb, a mark against her before she had time to introduce herself.

Also she hated the Yankees, which earned her no friends among the sports-passionate of her colleagues.

“It helps me to think,” Myka explained, her hands falling into her lap, onto the mountain of work she was trying to avoid doing. She had never felt so intensely drawn to another person before, a magnetism that seemed to pull her closer with every passing moment. Myka did not know what to make of it, but she did not spare her grading more than a passing thought. “And gives me a quiet space to grade.”

The dark haired woman uncurled further, revealing herself to be fairly tall. Her clothing style was intriguing. Myka, if asked to describe it, would have said she dressed in a dated style with a modern flair. She looked rather like Indiana Jones, only with far tighter pants and more buttons of her shirt undone.

It was all rather steampunk, but Myka did not want to apply a label to it.

Myka swallowed, this woman was far more attractive than she’d initially thought.

“Ah, so you are an educator, how noble,” There was something about the way that this stranger to Myka’s sanctuary spoke that set Myka on edge, made her wary. It wasn’t a feeling so much as an uncomfortableness, like prey that was being stalked.

Myka did not like feeling like prey.

Still, she shrugged. “It is not my true calling, but a means to an end.” She held out her hand, stretching across the space between them, pleasant smile crossing her features. “Myka Bering, I teach over at Hudson.”

“A _professor_ ,” The woman sounded genuinely impressed as she too reached across the space between them and grasped Myka’s hand firmly. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Professor Myka Bering.” As she shook, the woman smiled. “My name is Helena.”

A pleasant name, Myka thought. She did not want to let go of Helena’s hand, it felt right there, good. She couldn’t explain it even if she tried.

“It’s all mine,” Myka said, smiling, eyes cast low. She wasn’t opposed to flirting, not with a woman this beautiful.

It felt like the right thing to do at present, regardless.

Still, her hand had to be retracted, she could not linger forever. Myka pulled away slowly, making sure to linger as long as she could. She folded her hands into her lap, pulling a leg up under herself. “What brings you here, Helena? I’ve never seen you here before.”

There was a sadness that crossed Helena’s face, her eyes turning towards the window, her hand resting pensively on her chin as she stared off into space. Myka could see the books she was staring at, classics, books she taught about. Jules Verne, HG Wells, Oscar Wilde. Some of her favorites of all time.

Myka supposed that she had an era. Most lovers of literature do.

Helena sighed, pulling _The Invisible Man_ down from the shelf and flipping to the publisher’s information. She gave a rather unladylike snort and closed the book. “I was seeking solace in things I knew.”

Myka knew the feeling well. After Sam’s death, when nothing had made sense and everything about her job had ripped open wounds so deep that she did not think she could carry on, she’d retreated into those books. A fantasy world of tinkerers and inventors, artificers and bibliophiles; the perfect place for a depressed twenty-something just barely coming to terms with the deafening shortness that expressed human life. “They’re my favorites,” Myka agreed, gesturing to the shelf that Helena was contemplating. “I teach 19th century literature.”

 _The Invisible Man_ still clutched loosely in two fingers (it was a slim and battered paperback), Helena turned to face Myka. Her expression was unreadable, distant and closed-off. Myka wondered what had caused her face to go from lively and expressive to almost completely blank so quickly.

“How do you find it?” Helena asked, one elegantly arched eyebrow climbing higher up her brow. Her lips twitched, the blank expression turning privately bemused quickly.

Myka had gone to school to learn how to read people as well as she read books. She had spent a lifetime wondering why she understood the dusty words of long-dead men better than she could comprehend a beautiful woman. She had no answers but a closed-off smile of her own for Helena; she was in no mood to share her life’s story at this point in time.

 _Sam…_ He came unbidden to the forefront of her mind again. She hated him for never staying away, for haunting her every waking moment. He had drawn her away from her home, from her true calling – made it so that Myka was afraid to do what she had always done best. She was born for so much more than making pennies teaching literature to kids who weren’t really interested.

“Far better than today’s, for the most part,” Myka explained with a shrug. “There’s just something about Victorian-era literature that draws my attention like very few other eras do.”

“My surname name is also Wells,” Helena mused, pushing _The Invisible Man_ back into its place on the shelf with a drawn-out gesture with her wrist that was almost obscene.

Myka swallowed, hotly. Helena was a beautiful woman, that gesture had implied things about her that Myka was not sure she was ready to interpret the signals of just yet.

She smiled, closed off and private. Myka wondered what she was thinking. “I wonder if we are related.”

“Could be,” Myka shrugged.

 _Helena Wells, huh._

They talked for hours. It had been close to eleven when Myka had arrived at the bookstore, essays in tow. Helena was a skilled conversationalist and her manner of speaking intrigued Myka to no end. It was nearly four thirty when Helena pulled a pocket watch out of her vest pocket and flipped it open, contemplating it for a long moment before closing it once again. “I am afraid that I may have overstayed my welcome, Ms. Bering.”

 

“Myka, please,” Myka said for what felt like the third or fourth time that day. “Did you need to be somewhere? I’m so sorry – I completely lost track of the time.”

She was not actually all that sorry, not when she’d spent the afternoon having a most electrifying and intellectually stimulating discussion of some of her favorite novels. Her grading was now long-forgotten and she was scrambling through her rather pitiful mental collection of pick-up lines, trying to find a smooth way of asking Helena for her number so that they could continue this conversation at a later date.

Helena was amazing. She understood the time period in which Verne, Wells, even Doyle were writing far better than most history professors, and she spoke with such authority on the authors that Myka wondered if Helena was also a professor of some sort, she’d declined to mention her profession.

Myka bent down and tucked her papers back into her bag. Her hair fell into her face and she paused, brushing it aside once again. She was almost afraid to look up, to see Helena preparing to go. Her fingers brushed something in her bag, a stack of business cards she never uses. She pulled one out, feeing its worn edges on her finger pads. This was a bad idea.

Sam had once told her that they could only live once.

Unnaturally warm fingers brushed against Myka’s cheek and she felt her head jerk upwards, color and heat blossoming across the bridge of her nose and across her cheeks. “I am afraid I must depart, it was a pleasure.”

“Here,” Myka held up the card between two fingers, offering it to Helena. “It’s got my number on it; I’d love to continue this sometime.”

Helena stared at the card in her hand for a moment, before tucking it safely into her vest pocket. She put her hands in her pockets, pulled them out again and sighed. “As I am but a mere tinkerer, I do not have one of my own to give in return…” She trailed off, staring into space and away from Myka, who was just grateful she did not have to come up with a way of asking Helena for her phone number. “I shall endeavor, ‘twixt now and next time we meet, to acquire some.”

Myka grinned, “My cell number is the second one, text me sometime?” She flushed and stood as well, to cover the fact that she was behaving like a lovesick teenager. She was an adult, nearly thirty! She had to do better than this if she was ever going to see this intriguing woman again.

“I shall,” Helena promised, and Myka could not turn off her Secret Service training at that point in time. All she could see was the uncertainty and fearfulness of someone in new, uncharted territory. She’d worn that look for almost a full year before she was comfortable enough with her job to relax. It had ended in disaster then, Myka didn’t see a reason why it had to now.

They were in a very progressive, liberal area of the city, so when Helena leaned forward and grasped Myka’s hand within her own, Myka was not all that surprised. The warm brush of lips was new and different, but not unwelcome.

“Until next time, dear one.”

“’Bye.”

Helena smiled and gave a small wave, turning on her heel and leaving with soft footfalls on creaky floorboards. Myka’s fingers trailed over the place where Helena had kissed her hand, watching her as she left.

 _A tinkerer…_ Myka thought, eyes closing as she remembered how dark Helena’s eyes were when Helena’s lips had brushed against Myka’s skin. _How romantic._


	3. A Walk in the Park - Or, How to Stop Worrying Quite So...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein there is a date for coffee and tea because we must perpetuate a stereotype.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'ed by Spockette

The next two days passed slowly for Myka. Her lone class on Fridays was a three hour lecture for freshmen and Myka hated it almost as much as she was loved the class she had on Monday. She always dreaded the end of the week because it meant being trapped in that large auditorium, struggling to get students who did not care about the subject matter to at least pretend to be engaged when their minds were obviously already on their weekend plans.

So far it was proving to be a losing battle.

“Mister Sanderson, if you are quite finished,” Myka growled as a boy three rows back snorted at something on his laptop screen. He was probably watching youtube; or IMing someone else in the class.

Myka’s brow twitched.

“Yes ma’am,” Sanderson said, sarcasm just barely creeping into his voice. Myka wanted to hit him, her fist clenching under the podium. She hated teenage boys so much, and these freshmen were some of the worst.

This class, as she had explained to the bewitching woman in the bookshop Wednesday afternoon, was one of the main reasons she was thinking about returning to her former profession. Myka knew that she did command authority here, in front of these students, but not nearly as much as she did with a gun and badge in hand.

The class resumed, Myka had begun to discuss the historical background of Jules Verne, and when he had written _Around the World in Eighty Days._ English class, and didn’t go into it at great length.

After class she lingered, answering student questions, not wanting to return to her office. The day was mostly gone anyway, and there was nothing for her at home other than more grading and the potential to lose herself again in her copy of _The Time Machine._

Sometimes, Myka wished such fantastic devices really existed, she would love a chance to go back in time and try and save Sam from his fate. She still blamed herself, which is why she could never go back to the Secret Service. That wound had to heal before she dared trust herself to protect anyone, let alone POTUS, again.

The last of the students left, trailing out in groups of twos and threes. Myka gathered her things quietly. She slipped out the back door and cut across the green towards the English building. Her office was on the fourth floor, almost as far removed from students as she could arrange. The location wasn’t by choice, however.

She was an associate professor, the lowest rung on the proverbial ladder, and one without any ambition to become tenured. They shoved her off and up as far out of the way as they could then, but Myka welcomed the solitude and their plan backfired slightly in that regard. Her students knew where to find her, and Myka was well-liked by her students.

Well, for the most part, there were a few.

The door to her office was unlocked when she pushed her key into it. The janitors were all universally good about re-locking professor’s doors when they were done with their weekly vacuum and daily removal of trash.

Her hand jerked downward, reaching for her belt, for the holster that was locked in the gun safe in her apartment. _Shit._ Myka swallowed, stepping across it to the hinged side slowly, pushing it warily open with her foot. She peered around the corner into the growing late-afternoon gloom of her office and saw nothing. Myka’s fingers twitched, her muscles tensed, she was ready for action in the worst possible way as she stepped further into her office.

There was someone in her chair, leather-boot clad feet propped up against the windowsill. Myka recognized the boots and her face brightened as she stepped into the room and flicked on her desk light. “We have got to stop meeting like this, Ms. Wells.”

A light, airy, and delightedly feminine chuckle came from the chair as the feet shifted and it turned to reveal the – Myka gulped – sinfully tight pants and leather jacket clad form of one Helena Wells. “You don’t like my stealing your chairs? Why, Professor Bering, I’m hurt.” Helena tapped her chin thoughtfully, “When I was a child, this was considered by some to be a form of expressing interest in another person?”

Myka grinned, “So if we were in school you’d pull my braids and dip them in ink?” She remembered those scenes from old movies, the ones she watched with her mother and father when she was a child. She’d always liked that sort of self-expression. It seemed so wonderful, so carefully flirtatious without being overt.

Helena Wells, on the other hand, was being far more overt than was strictly _necessary_ in her flirting.

Not that Myka particularly minded.

“The thought had occurred to me, yes,” Helena laughed and stood, offering Myka her chair.

Myka inclined her head in thanks, sat down and quickly shut off her laptop and unplugged it. She bent her head under the desk and pulled the cord out of the power strip. She emerged, plug in hand and grinned up at Helena. “I’m done for the day; buy you a cup of coffee?”

“If it could be tea, that would be lovely,” Helena smiled and offered Myka her hand, pulling her too her feet. Her skin was cooler today, not quite so unnaturally warm. “I do apologize for breaking in. Picking locks is something of a specialty of mine.”

Myka wanted to point out that that was a very stupid thing to do, that she was a former secret service agent and that she could have probably hurt Helena very badly. Myka didn’t like surprises, didn’t like people invading her space, but she was alright with it, if it was Helena doing the invading. “Sometimes things are locked up for a reason, just remember that.”

Helena’s face fell slightly, but she nodded resolutely. “I shall endeavor to do that.”

“I thought that that tea thing was just a stereotype,” Myka slung her bag over her shoulder and inclined her head toward the door. Helena stepped forward and out into the hallway as Myka switched off the lights and tucked the book that one of her students had said he would be by to pick up later into her mail slot. She turned her keys in the lock, satisfied as it clicked shut. “And that you Brits loved coffee as much as Americans do.”

There was a small sigh that escaped Helena’s lips, and the gentle brush of fingers against Myka’s. She turned her palm, catching the gesture and relishing in it. Helena’s hand was warm in her own.

“It may be for some, but I have never had the stomach for coffee,” Helena confessed as Myka lead her towards the stairs. “It does not sit well.”

Myka laughed as they traversed the stairs. She had a coffee shop in mind, near the park. It was just Starbucks, nothing fancy on her salary; but she felt herself above the hipster crowd that had started to seep into this area of Manhattan and she didn’t like going to the smaller, more hole-in-the-wall shops.

The air outside was crisp and chipper. Myka’s messenger bag bounced against the back of her leg as they walked through the city streets towards the park. It felt strange, the way that Helena was watching everything around her with such interest, staring up at the skyscrapers as they came up and out of the subway (which Helena seemed to completely and utterly at home in – it was the first time that Myka truly thought she was relaxed).

“I know it’s Starbucks and a horrible thing to do – consumerism and all, but the park’s just a block over and it’s the closest place,” Myka knew that she sounded lame, that her proposal wasn’t as suave as she could have arranged, but she just wanted to spend more time with this amazing woman and her mind. “They have great tea there.”

Helena inclined her head; their hands had separated as soon as they’d exited the building on campus where Myka’s office was located. Myka felt the warmth of Helena’s hand now against her own. It was burning hot once again; uncomfortably warm despite the coolness of the day. “Shall we go in, then?” Helena asked, her lips pulling upwards into a bemused smile as Myka allowed her hand to be ever so briefly held.

It felt good for a moment, but this was the heart of the city, and Myka pulled her hand away. She shook her head ever so slightly at Helena’s questioning look and tried to make it as obvious as she could with her facial expression that she would explain later.

The door to the Starbucks opened and a stockbroker barreled his way between them, not even bothering to look back and over his shoulder as Myka flipped him off and turned to Helena. “I hate New Yorkers.”

“They haven’t changed all that much since my last visit to the city,” Helena agreed, straightening her jacket and checking to see that her pocket watch was still in place. Her fingers were stark and bare against the crisp black of her vest.

Myka smiled, “Come on then, let’s go in before we get run over.”

They went into the restaurant; the strong aroma of coffee and a hint of something underlying and sweet filled the air. Myka sighed happily, the smell of good coffee or tea could brighten her day considerably. “Their teas are listed up there,” Myka pointed to the list on the chalkboard above the register.

She watched as Helena read the tea list, her lips moving silently in the shapes of the oft-maligned and rather unfortunate names of the teas that the chain offered.

“Myka,” Helena began after a few long moments of contemplation and being stuck in line. “Am I correct to assume that ‘zesty orange flavored black tea’ is some variation on Earl Grey tea?”

They were next in line and Myka hurriedly gave the clerk her order, and then stated her agreement with Helena, who chose to order a cup of what was potentially normal black tea. They shuffled off to wait for their drinks to be ready and Myka grinned apologetically at Helena. She had assumed, perhaps wrongly, that everyone had, at one point in their lives, gotten stuck without a better alternative to Starbucks.

“It’s crazy in here,” she said, staring at the mull of people that filled the small space. The din of music and conversation and the hiss of espresso machines filled the room and Myka could barely hear herself think.

“Coffee and tea for Myka?” The barista called, setting the two cups and a teabag onto the counter. Myka accepted hers and passed the teabag and steaming cup of hot water to Helena.

It wasn’t until they had pushed their way out of the store and into the crisp growing night once again that Myka could hear Helena laughing. “This is truly horrible,” Helena gasped, pushing the teabag further down into the water and watching as it did little to color the water. “You _Americans_ and your barbaric ways.”

Myka’s cheeks flushed, but hey, it was something. She shook her head ever so slightly and shrugged broadly at the storefront, “It’s a chain.”

“So it is,” Helena agreed. She pressed the lid back onto the cup and cradled it between her hands. “I’ll just let it steep for a while.”

The park was just up the road, and they walked sedately, Myka’s coffee was as warm as Helena’s hands and she couldn’t stop stealing glances at the other woman whenever she thought she could get away with it (and a few times when she knew she was getting caught).

They were practically in the park by the time Myka had worked up the courage to say something. She knew that she was probably sending mixed signals to Helena and she did not want that. “I’m not… well, _out_.”

“Beg pardon?” Helena lowered her cup. They’d found a bench just off one of the side paths. They were obscured, for the most part, from view.

Myka looked down at the cup in her hands. “I… I don’t mind you touching me, holding my hand, but no one that I know is aware that I even like women.”

This pronouncement was greeted with a raised eyebrow and a smile that blossomed across Helena’s face. It was almost gleeful and Myka found that to be somewhat alarming. Had she said something wrong? Right? She shifted uncomfortably, eyeing Helena, waiting for the response she wasn’t entirely sure that she wanted to hear.

“You poor sweet dear,” Helena’s fingers, unnaturally warm again rested on her cheek. Myka flushed – what was the deal with her body temperature anyway? Myka wanted to ask, but it was probably rude and she didn’t want to ruin this, whatever it was, between the two of them. “I have no intention of drawing you out from hiding if that is not your end goal. I find you incredibly stimulating to speak with on all manner of subjects and I merely wanted to continue that line of conversation in a more… shall we say… _intimate_ context?”  
“Well, I-” Myka was a well-educated, liberated woman. She enjoyed the finer things in life when she could get away with it, and right now, in this moment, Helena Wells was presenting herself up on a platter for the taking. Myka didn’t know what to say, how to react. Her cheeks were burning and she was finding it so hard to form a coherent thought.

Something buzzed from deep within Helena’s jacket pocket and the moment was gone. Helena set her tea down on the ground next to her foot and dug into her pocket for a moment before producing a cell phone. She contemplated it for a moment before accepting the call, holding the phone with what almost looked like trepidation up to her ear.

“Wells,” she said quietly, eyes almost guiltily looking away from Myka. The person on the other end spoke for a few moments before Helena commented again, “That quickly? I must say that I am impressed.” She listed for a few minutes and then inclined her head slightly into the phone. “I will be prepared. Goodbye.”

Myka took a long sip of her coffee, trying to appear as though she was not intensely curious as to whom Helena was speaking. She didn’t think she knew Helena well enough to ask such a question, but they had been in the middle of a rather serious conversation and it did strike Myka as slightly rude to just answer the phone without so much as a, ‘ah shit I gotta get this’ on Helena’s part.

“I am afraid that I must return to England,” Helena whispered, staring at the phone in her hands. Myka watched as they shook, her fingers creating what looked to be steam across the phone’s screen. “I had been anticipating returning for some time, but I had not been prepared for it to happen so… abruptly.”

“Oh?” Myka asked, “Why?”

“I have some business I must take care of at my former place of residence. Some of my things were left there when I came here, and I need to get them back.” Helena rose, bent and picked up her tea. “I truly regret that our time has, yet again, been cut short.”

Myka sighed; she did not want to see Helena leave. “Will you come by again? Maybe this time without any breaking in?”

Helena gave Myka a closed-off smile and offered her hand. Myka took it and allowed Helena to pull her too her feet. “You are lovely,” Helena whispered, leaning in, brushing her lips against Myka’s cheek. “And your secret is safe with me.”

And then, as if in a puff of smoke, she completely vanished into nothingness, leaving Myka with a hand pressed against the still warm place where Helena’s lips had pressed against her cheek.

 _Just who are you, Helena Wells?_


	4. Headhunting - Or, Back at the (Ranch) Warehouse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein we are brought up to date on what is going on back at home base.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'ed by Spockette

Claudia Donovan poked moodily through the remains of what had been an Alpha sector shelf, looking for salvageable artifacts amidst the rubble of what had been James MacPherson’s final two fingered salute to the Warehouse. Not that it really mattered, he was dead now. Killed by the very woman he’d pulled out of the Bronze sector to aid his plans.

This shit sucked.

There was an urn on the floor that Claudia gingerly righted, purple neutralizer-coated gloves firmly in place as she moved quickly and methodically, cataloguing the damage and deciding if it could be salvaged or if it had to be destroyed.

Artie had been … _awful_ since Pete had gotten back from London and they’d found HG Wells and MacPherson heading into the Escher Vault. It probably had something to do with his propensity to leave no details out of his reports, especially how HG Wells was apparently a decent kisser, even if her mouth tasted like mothballs. Had Claudia been writing the report, she would have most definitely left that bit out.

The woman was obviously psychotic, but a little brilliant. The vest that she was wearing blurred her right out of the normal spectrum of vision and she’d practically been bragging when she mentioned that she’d been the one who’d built it. In something crazy like 1895.

Yeah, brilliant and fucking crazy.

Claudia’s favorite.

“Hey Claud! Have you seen Artie’s glasses?!” Pete called from the stairway behind her. He was leaning over the railing, gingerly resting his stomach against the soot and ash covered surface. They’d been cleaning for _days_ , trying to predict what was going to happen next. “He’s lost them… again.”

Claudia sighed theatrically, and pulled off the gloves. The urn went back onto the shelf and she turned on its display carefully, eyeing it as it came on line. Everything seemed in order and so she turned and headed back towards Pete, the stairs, and their little family.

The office of one Artie Nielsen was part antique shop, part hoarder stash and completely and totally impossible to navigate unless you knew the mind, and therefore the genius of Artie Nielsen. Claudia liked to boast that she could find anything in his office, but mostly that was just because she was observant, not a complete idiot, and Artie was fairly predictable in his mess.

“They’re under that stack of files,” Claudia pointed to the corner of Artie’s desk and the older man shifted the pile and gave a triumphant sounding laugh. “Where you left them,” she finished with a raised eyebrow.

She was going to have to do something about that, she was still recovering from the fact that Artie fucking died (and was resurrected). Everything was so strange and new now. She had retreated into cleaning, into picking up the pieces of the destruction that MacPherson had caused. She didn’t want to deal with it. She didn’t want to force herself to cope with everything that had happen.

Claudia had faced her mortality so many times in the past week, she couldn’t take much more of it, to be completely honest.

“Thank you,” Artie said, before pushing a file into her hands and holding one out to Pete who took one as well. “Mrs. Frederic wants you both to go to New York to look into an artifact that may or may not be located in the archives at Hudson University.”

“Hudson?” Pete asked, flipping through the file. Claudia followed his line of questioning easily. Hudson University was the made-up university that took the place of every other college in New York City on _Law and Order;_ she didn’t think it was an actual place.

“Yes, it does exist. It’s a really small school is all,” Artie sniffed, flipping to the next page of his notes. Claudia had noticed the difference in him, since HG Wells killed MacPherson, since he himself died. He was quieter, not quite as irritable, it was hard to tell if you didn’t know him as well as Claudia did. “And has a proud tradition and a great squash intermural team.”

“Because everyone _loves_ squash,” Claudia rolled her eyes and Pete had to stuff his fist into his mouth to keep from laughing.

“This is the first time Warehouse agents – and junior agents,” Artie gestured to Claudia. She stuck her tongue out at him as soon as his head turned away again, “have gone there regarding something other than the squash team.”

Pete let out a low whistle and Claudia hurriedly turned the page in the file. There was a list of dates and artifacts recovered listed there, all connected to the squash team’s almost improbable elite status year in and year out. Fifteen incidents all told and yet the team still boasted the best record in the league.

Claudia was impressed. Apparently, the squash team was like the Spanish inquisition, no one ever suspected it and the Warehouse kept having to go and clean up their messes. For serious, how many artifacts where there that made you good at a dumb sport like squash? “So if it’s not the squash team, what is it?”

A voice cut through the room. “You are looking for what has the potential to be a vitally important artifact in the tracking down of the escaped HG Wells.”

They all jumped, pretty much in unison. Claudia hissed quietly under her breath, wishing that she knew how Mrs. Frederic managed to fucking apparate in and out of the Warehouse. She was going to find a way to rig up a warning system, a bell or something. Anything to keep Mrs. F from scaring the everloving shit out of everyone when they were trying to have a meeting.

“I wish you wouldn’t _do_ that,” Artie grumbled. He glared at her over his glasses and she glared right back. Claudia did admire the stones that Artie had to possess in order to stand up to Mrs. F on the reg, she would have pissed her pants long ago under the glare that he was currently receiving.

“Right,” Artie continued, shifting to the computer screen and pulling up what looked to be a picture of George Washington. “You both know the legend of George Washington and the cherry tree, right?”

Pete nodded, “He cut it down while playing, got caught and owned up to it because he couldn’t tell a lie…”

Everyone knew the story, Claudia had heard it long before she had any frame of reference to the words ‘allegory’ and ‘fable.’ Even as she thought about how her brother had told her the story in careful words and half-remembered facts (his mind was usually on other things), she knew that it was truly not about George Washington, but rather about being honest.

“That’s half of it,” Artie pushed a few buttons on the computer and the image of a worn and rather antique-looking hatchet came onto the screen. “You see, the hatchet was a gift from Washington’s father, who had in turn traded it from a French _voyageur_ who was heading through Virginia on his way down to Louisiana to trade at the French settlement at what would become New Orleans. I think he traded him a warm meal and a night with a slave – but that’s neither here nor there and rather reprehensible regardless…”

Mrs. F coughed and Artie hurriedly continued, “In that moment of telling the truth despite the fact that Washington had every reason in the world to lie, legends say that the hatchet became _infused_ with the ability to always see the truth in things.”

“That’s great!” Pete said happily, slamming the file folder shut and crossing over towards the door. “We can use it next time we see HG and figure out what she’s really up to!”

Mrs. Frederic cleared her throat even more loudly and Claudia turned to look at her, “Or we could, you know, just bring back the hatchet and … you know… bury it.”

Oh yeah, puns.

“Miss Donovan, while I appreciate your attempts at humor this is not the best time. The reason you are going to Hudson University at all when we have very little to go on is that there is someone there that it is vital that you both make the acquaintance of,” Mrs. Frederic gave Artie a look and he turned back to the computer, his face stoic and calm. Claudia wondered what that was about. “I cannot say anything more as it taints the natural order of things, but be prepared regardless.”

Claudia gave a mock salute and Pete nodded gravely. There hadn’t been much time for fun the past few days. Everything had gone to hell and they were short-staffed enough as it was. Poor Leena had had to do most of the clean-up after the explosion on her own because the rest of them had been jet setting all over the world in pursuit of MacPherson and Wells.

Maybe this time they’d be able to finally have some fun on an away mission and things would get back to normal.


	5. Chance Discoveries - Or, Helena's Secret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein secrets are revealed and nothing is as it seems.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'ed by the lovely Spockette.

It had been a week since Myka had seen Helena. She’d gotten a phone call on Tuesday while she was teaching from a blocked number and a brief message from Helena saying that she was back from London but that she had unexpected business to attend to in the Midwest and that she would call again when she had just a bit more time. That had been _Tuesday,_ it was Friday and Myka was starting to pine, just a little.

It wasn’t as if they were seeing each other.

She hated the waiting. It was never her strong suit. Sam used to chastise her for being impatient, but in reality, Myka was just itching for action. She craved it; the mundane of this job and of teaching in general did nothing for her. She was trying to heal, but it did not work under pressure such as this.

Sometimes, Myka wondered if she was going about this all wrong. If the way to heal from Sam’s death was actually to go back into the Secret Service and work through her demons that way; she wondered about it quite a bit, when she was truly honest with herself.

Her apartment was a mess, she had to go to the laundromat at some point in the near future, but she had been avoiding the task. The cab fare was expensive and she hated having people looking at her underwear as she tried to fold her clothes as quickly as possible.

There were so many mundane details that had slipped her mind in the past week and change. Myka had been so caught up in the mystery that was Helena Wells that she’d forgotten to do much else other than debate where on earth Helena had disappeared off to in the Midwest. The number was blocked, she couldn’t figure out where it had come from without calling in a favor from a friend back in Denver – and she’d burned those bridges to the ground when she’d left without a word.

Myka checked her email listlessly, reading university correspondence and noting that she had yet another department meeting to attend on Tuesday. She was debating skipping it, had been since the first reminder email had been sent out, but hadn’t found the best excuse yet.

Myka was almost secretly hoping that Helena would come back into her life so she could claim an old friend was in town and she simply had to beg off because they were off to London or wherever in the morning. It almost seemed like it would work on Professor Isaacs or Jeffery. They weren’t exactly the most forgiving of her love of 19th century science fiction authors – they were far more interested in poets or Dickens or boring stuff that Myka had read once and had no intention of ever re-reading.

She eyed the gun safe that was resting on the counter. After Helena had broken into her office, Myka had gone to the NYPD firing range in Brooklyn and had fired off three clips into the dead center of the target that was neatly folded on top of it. She couldn’t help it, she wanted to be at the tip-top of her game and Helena successfully breaking into her office had been a slight against Myka’s usually pristine guard.

The NYPD guys who had been at the firing range that day had been most impressed at her shot, especially when she said that she was not currently in law enforcement. Myka liked that she could still impress the boy’s club with her skills, but she didn’t like how they looked at her when they thought she wasn’t looking.

Myka closed her laptop and slumped back on the couch, her forearm covering her eyes. She knew she looked like a melodramatic actress, but she was tired and she needed to sleep. She’d been kept up for most of the night before with a loud party next door to her tiny apartment.

There was a knock on the door, Myka started, her hands instinctively reaching for her belt again. Her gun holster was closer now, and she’d never closed the gun safe completely. She exhaled quietly, and slipped her gun out and into her hand.

She wouldn’t shoot unless provoked.

The knocking grew more persistent and Myka’s eyes narrowed. She flicked the light switch, filling the room with darkness. She didn’t have any friends here, the only people who really knew her location were her family and a few choice contacts at the Secret Service – should a lead in Sam’s case ever come up. She’d failed two students on an exam today; her address was in the student directory. She wasn’t taking any chances.

She slid her back along the wall, against the hinge side of the door and peered through the peephole. The hallway outside was dark; she could make out a figure, but could not discern anything other than dark hair and a smaller stature.

Myka pulled the chain off and opened the door, gun first, squinting into the hallway. It was illegal to have firearms like this in New York without a badge, she had one, it was technically on hiatus, but they offending knocker did not know that.

“Myka?” The voice that cut through the gloom was familiar, recognizable, and entirely too British for its own good.

Myka lowered the gun, finger flipping the safety back into place. “Hi,” she said lamely.

“A gun?” Helena seemed impressed as Myka’s hand went back to the light switch and flicked it on, “I must say it’s been a while since I’ve encountered someone at gunpoint on a _social_ visit.”

What the hell does _that_ mean? Myka wondered before the embarrassment hit her full-tilt.

She felt sheepish, rubbed her hand on the back of her neck and gestured with her free hand for Helena to come in. Myka moved quickly over to the gun safe. She checked the chamber of her gun and popped the bullet she’d loaded into it into her hand. Setting both into the gun safe, she pushed it shut and spun the combination lock to ensure that it was locked.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” Myka laughed. God this was embarrassing. “Old habits, you know…”

“Old habits?” Helena raised an eyebrow; fingering the strap of the bag she had slung across her chest. Myka wished she hadn’t said anything. Her last date hadn’t gone so smoothly when she’d mentioned that she used to protect the president for a living. And fight terrorism, and sleep with her partner – who also happened to be a man.

Myka couldn’t have helped it if she tried, it always came out. She liked women better, always had. Sam was just Sam. Her best friend, a boy scout. The best sort of a guy. She supposed that there’s an exception to every rule.

“I used to be in the Secret Service.” Myka said lamely.

Helena’s lips pursed, but her expression didn’t change from quietly bemused to anything other than more quietly bemused. “You are so much more of a puzzle than I ever anticipated, Myka Bering.”

She supposed that that was something.

The clock on the stove read close to midnight. “What are you doing here, Helena?” The question fell unbidden from Myka’s lips, she couldn’t help herself. She was a trained investigator – Helena was a puzzle. Myka couldn’t tell if she was truly interested in the dark haired woman or just intrigued by her right and proper way of speaking and acting.

Again, very steampunk.

And Myka was not about to label anything that didn’t want to be labeled.

“I’ve brought you a gift, sweet Myka.” Quietly bemused had finally changed to more overtly happy. Helena pulled her bag over her shoulder and quickly undid the straps. There was the quiet clink of metal objects within it and Myka raised a curious eyebrow as Helena unearthed a small wrapped package.

She remembered this movie, she remembered how badly it had ended that time, and Myka could not help but ask: “It’s not my dreams is it?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t follow?”

To be fair, it was something of a nerdy reference, and she had no idea how popular that movie had been in the UK.

Laughing, Myka waved her hand dismissively. She supposed that she should have expected nothing less, Helena was obviously older than her anyway. There was a chance that she’d missed such delightful eighties movies as _Labyrinth_ in her childhood. “Never mind, it’s just a joke from a movie I liked when I was a kid.”

There was a look of realization that dawned on Helena’s face, as if she had suddenly recognized the line, and she nodded enthusiastically. She held out the brown-paper wrapped package to Myka.

“What is it?” Myka asked, reaching out and accepting it. She turned it over in her hands, feeling the rough twine and coarseness of the paper. It felt old, and like a book. Myka adored old books.

“When I returned home, to London, I saw this and it evoked a great many strong feelings within me – for you. I felt that I must give it to you.” Helena stood almost awkwardly in the middle of Myka’s tiny kitchen. Myka gestured for Helena to join her on the shabby couch, pushing her laptop off to one side. Helena joined her and Myka began to open the package as Helena continued, “I do not know when I will be called away again; consider it a keepsake from me to you.”

The paper was barely half-way open before Myka recognized the cover. She would have known it anywhere; she’d spent hours staring at it in her father’s study. “Helena…” she breathed, “where did you get this?”

“My family’s home,” There was that bright smile, almost expectant. Like a child just waiting to be praised. Myka couldn’t accept this. Its value was far greater than Myka could even fathom. “It was mine when I was young.”

She couldn’t take it. Her hands shook as she removed the last of the paper and stared at what had to be one of the first (and very limited) full publications of what had been the serial novel _War of the Worlds._ “How did you know…?”

“You are a lover of books,” Helena supplied. Her fingers brushed against Myka’s chin, pulling it upright and forcing Myka to wrench her gaze away from the book cover. Her hands were hot today, almost painful to the touch. Again they filled Myka with wonder and questions she could not put into words. “And I know its value; I want you to have it. It does no good collecting dust in my bedroom at home.”

And thus began a conversation about the merits of such stories and the impact that they’d had on modern science fiction. Helena confessed that she’d been reading a good bit of Isaac Asimov recently on her trips back and forth ‘across the pond’. She pointed out the similarities between the writing of HG Wells and Jules Verne and how such storytelling devices and concepts had given shape to later works. Myka suggested that she read some Tolkien or potentially CS Lewis in order to branch out a bit.

It was nearly three in the morning when Myka suggested that they go to bed. Helena seemed reluctant to leave and Myka offered her the couch.

That offer was countered with a raised eyebrow and Myka grabbing Helena’s hand and pulling her around the half-wall that separated her bedroom from the living area and kitchen. This wasn’t really her, she didn’t normally do things like this. She wasn’t … okay, she was, impulsive as all get out when she wanted to be, but this wasn’t one of those moments.

She felt bold, her hand twined with Helena’s all too warm one as they tumbled onto the bed together. Myka wanted to kiss her, wanted to tell her how hard Helena’s absence from her life for a week had been.

Helena’s lips were warm against her forehead and the arm that slung across her stomach was heavy and comforting. “Not tonight,” Helena whispered as Myka calmed, her body finally relaxing for what felt like the first time in months.

The words held a promise, one that Myka would hold Helena to.

As Myka drifted off, feeling more content than she had since Sam died, Helena added, “It has to be special.”

Myka fell asleep with a smile on her face.

The next morning Helena was gone, there was a note written in handwriting so indecipherable that Myka had to sit and contemplate it for a good minute or two before she fully comprehended what it said.

 __

Myka,

 _There is a matter that I must attend to this morning in the city; I truly regret leaving you without a word. You were sleeping so peacefully, I did not want to disturb you. I shall return sometime tonight, with any luck, and we can perhaps continue the conversation from last night?_

 _Helena_

Myka folded the note carefully and tucked it into the book that Helena had given her. She fingered its edges, half filled with awe at the gift, at Helena herself.

Who kicked in her sleep, but Myka wasn’t about to tell her that unless it became a regular sort of a thing.

Her cell phone rang and she turned to pick it up from where she’d left it on the kitchen table last night. It was Professor Jefferies’ number, and Myka sighed theatrically before answering. “Bering,” she said quietly. There was something about the peace of the morning thus far that made her want to remain in that quiet sort of melancholy that had overtaken her as soon as she’d realized Helena was gone.

“Myka, you have to come in,” Jefferies’ voice was loud and brash and certainly New York. “There’s been some sort of leak and the university is sending a team to check the offices one by one to make sure that they’re clear. I know its Saturday and all, but this way it won’t disturb classes.”

Myka gathered her things as she got details on the leak. The NYFD was certain that it was not a gas leak (the lines did not go under the English building, which left a water leak. Myka swallowed, terrified at the idea of water damage on all of the books she had stored in her office. She hated having to go in on a Saturday, but the idea of losing the books that she had stockpiled in her office was … well, a fate far worse than death. She had to ensure their safety.

The subway was packed and Myka squeezed herself into the car next to a family of harassed-looking tourists with thick southern accents. They were talking loudly marveling at the city, and she ignored them as most New Yorkers are wont to do. Tourists were a large part of why Myka’s morning commutes were hellish and she tried to not think about them most of the time.

Hudson University was close to abandoned on the weekends. The few dorms that dotted the small green space that constituted the campus were alive with lights and students outside, playing Frisbee and talking in small groups, but there was an emptiness to the place that Myka hated. It was so alive during the week, students pushing in small mobs across the green and through the class buildings.

Myka hurried up the four flights of stairs to her office. She saw open doors and a few of her colleagues milling about in the hallways as she traversed the floors. Her keys were in her hand as she pushed open the heavy fire door that lead to the fourth floor, a single long hallway that stretched out on either side of the stairs, doors to offices and reading alcoves dotting either side.

Her office door was open.

 _What is with that?! Twice in a goddamn week. This better not become a thing._ Myka grumbled to herself, shoving her keys back into her pocket and pulling her bag off of her shoulder as quietly as she could. She set it in a reading alcove, nudging it under a chair with her foot as she pressed her back against the wall.

There were voices coming from her office. Myka kept closer, listening. Her hands were balled into fists, she couldn’t think of why anyone would want to break into _her_ office. All she had in there were books, she hadn’t even drafted the midyear yet. There was no reason that she could think of for anyone to be even remotely interested in her office.

The floorboards creaked under her feet, but Myka didn’t think it was loud enough to give her away. She crept closer, body tense and coiled, ready to spring into action.

A metallic and distant sounding voice, snippy and commanding was barking orders. It almost sounded like an old television transmission – and Myka blinked, trying to pin point where exactly it was coming from. “Have you found anything yet?”

“NO!” Two voices shouted in unison. There was a male and a younger sounding female. Myka reasoned that the male would be harder to neutralize, but the tone of voice did not suggest a threat and the female-sounding voice was young – probably no older than her students.

Oh, she longed for her gun.

Myka’s back was pressed firmly against the wall, and she stuck her neck out just far enough around the door frame to catch sight of two figures, masked in the early morning sunlight of her office. She blinked, closing her eyes and counting to five before preparing to dive into the room and take them down. She hadn’t seen any weapons, it’d probably be a pretty easy take down.

The male voice was friendly-sounding almost. Myka paused when he began to speak again, “What the hell are we even looking for?”

“The hatchet,” came the echoing voice of the second man – the one that Myka did not see. “The pressure of exposing the truth is enough to make pipes burst and from everything I can gather, it’s concentrated in that office.”

There was some shifting of papers, and Myka hoped and prayed that it was not the essays she’d still not graded, and a cough. “Is there any way that because this is the apex of the building that it could just seem to be coming from here, cause I got nothin’.” The man’s voice asked.

The young female voice perked up, “I’m with him Artie, we can’t find anything in here that could remotely resemble the hatchet – just an almost creepily complete collection of HG Wells’ books.”

“You are in an _English professor’s_ office, Claudia,” The transmitted voice – _Artie,_ Myka corrected mentally - retorted to the young female voice, apparently named Claudia. “It makes sense.”

“It’s just that she’s turning up everywhere now.” The male voice added. “Freaky.”

 _She?_ Myka thought, brow furrowing with confusion.

“No, _normal_ given your location, call me when you actually have something to talk to me about,” There was a fizz of static and then the room was quiet.

Myka took that as her cue to act. She pressed her hand flat against the door and pushed it the rest of the way open, diving forward and tackling the taller of the two figures. He let out a grunt as Myka’s shoulder connected with his stomach and they crashed to the floor. The trashcan at the base of Myka’s desk was knocked over and paper flew into the air as Myka jabbed the guy in the face and chest, trying to get a good hold on him.

She knew that it was a losing battle, he probably had fifty pounds on her and she was going to lose as soon as his partner got over the initial shock of being randomly ambushed.

Her hands grabbed at the guy’s wrists, her legs jerked sideways and downwards, pinning his legs under her as she sat on his chest, leaning down over him. Glaring at him. “What the hell are you doing in my office?!” She demanded.

Despite everything, Myka had had quite enough breaking and entering for one day.

“Get off him, lady,” The female voice said and Myka turned her head quickly, hair clouding her vision as she found herself face to face with what had to have been a toy gun.

The girl behind it, _Claudia_ , was small in stature and had short red hair with a bright green streak dyed into it. Her clothes were tight and her boots sensible, Myka was impressed, considering she looked way too young to even be in possession of a gun. She couldn’t have been much younger than Myka’s students, if not their age. “Now,” she added, lip curling upwards.

Myka rolled off the guy, who shook himself off and reached for something in his back pocket. Myka watched him warily and he unearthed a familiar leather badge case. “We’re secret service, no need to go crazy on us,” he said, handing her the badge.

From her couch, Myka took the badge and contemplated it for a minute. It was genuine; the guy’s name was Peter Lattimer. It didn’t ring a bell, he probably wasn’t a west coast guy then – Myka knew most of them. He was either DC or New York. “Doesn’t explain why you’re in my office.” She flipped the badge back at him and began to pick up the papers that had fallen out of her trash can.

“Janitor let us in,” Claudia supplied and Myka gave her a withering glare.

“If you’re going to try that again, at least learn to lie convincingly,” Myka said coldly. She turned to Lattimer, “Your credentials don’t say where you’re out of – I assume DC then?”

“Formally, I work elsewhere now.” His boyish face turned towards in confusion. “How would you know that?”

“I’m on extended leave – out of Denver.” Myka stood herself, pulling her wallet out of her back pocket and handing it to him. “Myka Bering.”

“ _You’re_ Secret Service?” The guy took her wallet and flipped through it, his purple gloved fingers carefully examining her non-active agent card. He seemed satisfied with it, and tossed it back to her, “I’m Pete, this is-”

“Claudia,” Myka said, nodding at the red-head. “I heard you on your radio.”

“It’s rude to eavesdrop,” Claudia said with a scowl.

Myka was going to point out that it was also rude to break into people’s offices, but a strangely mechanical-sounding noise filled the room. It sounded like a fifties era alarm clock mixed with a warning siren. She watched as Pete dug a strange-looking box out of his pocket and flipped it open. “ _Well,_ ” The same voice that Myka had heard before demanded. “Did you find anything?”

“Only a Secret Service agent pretending to be a college professor, Artie,” Pete muttered, rubbing the back of his head. He turned the device to point at Myka, who was in the process of tucking her wallet back into the back pocket of her jeans. She found herself staring at a round screen and a curly-haired older man with the most impressive eyebrows that she’d ever seen in her life scowling at her. She waved sheepishly, he glared. Pete pulled the strange video device back towards himself. “This is her office,” he explained.

“And you let her _catch_ you?” Artie demanded, his tone irritated.

Claudia opened up her mouth to reply but suddenly a strangely high pitched whistle filled the room and Myka clapped her hands over her ears. “Someone’s using it!” She shouted, pulling her strange-looking gun out of her pocket and running out into the hallway. Myka followed, peering around the doorway cautiously – she had no gun.

From inside one of the many pockets of her leather jacket, Claudia produced what appeared to be radar device. “What’s over there?” She demanded, pointing at out the window.

Myka crossed the room and peered out over the Hudson University campus. “The library…” She said, but Claudia was off like a shot, Pete hot on her heels. They yanked open the door to the stairs and were soon thundering down them.

She didn’t know why she did it, but Myka followed them.

She could hear Pete and Claudia shouting at each other, talking about ‘her’ and ‘the hatchet’ and the implications of Myka having seen them. Myka knew the secret service – there was a good chance that they were part of one of those special task forces that dealt with specific threats to national security and the like. She knew better than to ask which, but knew that even though she was not currently an active agent, it was her sworn duty to help.

They sprinted across the green, clouds had gathered and it looked like it would soon rain. Myka was grateful because it meant that the Frisbee players had gone inside and there was no one around to witness the comical presentation of three grown people making a mad dash towards a library.

Myka had always loved the library at Hudson. It was a true sanctuary for her. The stacks contained many treasures that she had yet to fully discover and she was forever drawn into it – losing herself in books and in adventures of days long-since past.

The whistling sound grew louder as they ran deeper into the library, and soon Myka could hear voices, raised voices – shouting over each other.

“How did you know?! How could you possibly know what happened?” A young boy that Myka recognized from around campus was standing in front of a tiny blond girl wearing a Delta-Delta-Delta t-shirt. In her hands was an old-looking hatchet, which she had pointing directly at him. “I never told anyone!”

“Josh, you are a horrible liar, even I can see the truth!”

Myka feet skidded to a halt and she grabbed Pete’s shoulder to keep herself from falling. They crouched behind a bookshelf and Pete pulled out a gun similar to the one that Claudia had had earlier. “What are you doing!?” Myka hissed, grabbing his arm. “You can’t _shoot_ them, they’re kids.”

Pete gave Myka a sad look and shook his head. “This is need to know.”

She wanted to stop him, but the words gave her pause. She understood that there were some things that she just couldn’t know about. They were top-secret, and her clearance wasn’t exactly that at the moment. She exhaled quietly and nodded her head, hand clenched into a fist.

Myka couldn’t watch as Pete stepped out from behind the bookshelf. She could see that Claudia was doing something with the radar that she’d had in her hand before. No one was providing Pete with cover and Myka was sorry to say that she didn’t think that a toy gun was going to do much to stop the girl with the hatchet from offing her apparently cheating boyfriend. She had seen Pete’s gun – a _real_ gun – strapped to his waist when they’d run over here. Why he didn’t draw that was entirely beyond Myka.

“Drop the hatchet,” Pete’s voice was commanding, authoritative. He finally sounded like Secret Service. Myka braced herself to run and tackle a girl with a hatchet, should Pete need back up.

He was advancing slowly into the open study area where the confrontation was taking place. His footwork was precise; he was probably ex-military. “Please, just drop it before something really bad happens.”

The blond girl’s hair began to rise as she gripped the hatchet tighter. The whistling sound intensified. She lunched forward, pushing her boyfriend to the ground and shouting, “No! It lets me see the truth.”

Myka pushed off the ground, hands out stretched, ready to pull Pete down and out of the way of the blow that she was sure was about the come.

Bright blue light filled the room and the girl slumped to the floor, hatchet clattering uselessly to the floor beside her.

Rolling into a sitting position, Myka peered around the library, looking for the source of the blast.

“Well, well Agent Lattimer, I see you’re still getting yourself into all sorts of _trouble._ ” That voice, Myka _knew_ that voice.

“Helena?” she breathed.


	6. The Hatchet - Or, Who is Irene Frederic?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein there are kisses and intense moments, also cryptic beehives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'ed by the lovely spockette.

She didn’t know how to process what was going on around her. Disbelief colored Myka’s every feature as she couched, half-hidden from view, behind a bookshelf. What was Helena doing here? What were Pete and Claudia up to – what did the hatchet that that girl was carrying have to do with anything?

Myka bit her lip, glancing around as she did so, trying to find cover, trying to advance closer to the conversation. Her training had taken over; this was what she had been taught to do from day one in training during hostile situations. She was alert, ready to spring into action if she had to protect or diffuse the situation.

Inwardly, her mind was in turmoil. She didn’t know who the hell these people where, or why the fuck they shot a kid. Myka couldn’t even begin to wrap her mind around how Helena knew them, or why she was professing her innocence while staring them down behind the barrel of a gun. It just didn’t make any sense. None of this did.

“I am not the enemy here,” Myka looked up from the floor to Pete to Helena to the floor again. The girl was starting to twitch, coming to, she supposed. She shifted, keeping her body low to the ground as she moved to check on the girl.

Pete leveled his … god it must have been something like a ray gun at Helena and Myka swallowed. If this was all some elaborate steampunk fantasy game on both of their parts, Myka was going to flip the fuck out. She couldn’t handle much more of this, there was only so much a person could take before the felt like they were truly going completely and utterly mad. “I don’t know, lady. You’ve done enough damage already.”

Helena took a step forward, one hand lowering to the bag at her hip. She reached into it and produced a metallic bag similar to the one that Myka had seen Claudia holding earlier. She bent and scooped the hatchet into it, tilting her head off to one side as she did so. Myka had to raise her hand to cover her eyes as the bag sparked and sputtered violently and brightly. “I had no intention of ever coming out of there,” Helena hissed, her eyes were dark, almost frightening. Myka was shaken by the coldness of her words, by how much hatred was clearly held within them. “Your _man_ decided that I was to be his patsy.”

“So you just up and killed him?” Pete adjusted his grip on the gun. “We don’t do that!”

Helena raised an eyebrow and Myka felt the color drain from her face. Helena had killed someone? She didn’t believe it, or at least, not without asking about it. Obviously there was more to this than met the eye. Myka cringed, thinking of how haunted Helena had seemed the night before, maybe there was some truth to it after all.

They obviously knew each other , after all. But Pete and Claudia were… well, they weren’t exactly _traditional_ Secret Service agents. Myka still wasn’t entirely sure she even could even believe that they were that, badges, after all, could be faked.

She’d have to ask.

Her breath came in uneven pulls, shaky and fearful. She had to calm down or else she wasn’t going to be able to make good decisions.

“And here I was thinking that I had done you lot a favor.” Helena shrugged. She bent, set the silvery-metallic bag on the floor and tucked the stun gun into the back of her pants. Myka watched as she turned and smoothed her jacket flat. “Your revolutionaries and their artifacts…” She shook her head.

Pete lowered his gun and Claudia moved out from behind the bookshelf. The girl stirred under Myka’s touch and she backed away. She felt awkward, like she shouldn’t be there, like she was intruding on a conversation that she could only just barely follow.

“I’m calling an ambulance for her,” Pete muttered to Claudia, who nodded. The red head began checking vital signs, Myka knew the progression well and knew that she was no-longer needed.

She stood, hesitantly backing away as Pete spoke quickly and efficiently to the 911 operator. He was a smooth liar, talking in circles and explaining that a girl had gotten accidentally electrocuted because of all the water leaks that the university had been experiencing today.

When Myka was sure that he was completely occupied, she pushed off, sprinting off after Helena. She had to catch her, had to figure out what was going on. She didn’t know – Helena would tell her.

“Helena!” she shouted at the smaller woman’s retreating figure. Her chest felt like it was full of lead, but Myka kept moving, hurrying towards the woman who had somehow stolen her heart out from under her. The woman who knew far more than she was letting on about everything that was going on.

Helena stopped, turning to watch as Myka drew level with her. They were deep in the stacks now, Myka knew that there was a fire exit just off the next row and that that was probably where Helena had come in from.

She was panting, out of breath. “Is it true?” Myka gasped out, staring at Helena with wide and disbelieving eyes. She couldn’t believe it, refused to. There was no way someone as wonderful as Helena could have actually hurt someone – let alone killed them. Myka would not accept that reality.

Brown eyes, full of hurt that Myka had never quite seen before, turned to face her. Helena took a step forward, her hand coming to rest on Myka’s shoulder. “I should have known you would find yourself involved with all of this,” Helena muttered, her accent thick with emotion.

Myka’s back hit the bookshelf behind her and Helena came even closer, she was still talking – it almost sounded like what Helena was saying was not meant for Myka’s ears at all. “You are so innocent to all this, and yet that place already has its claws in you,” She kissed Myka’s cheek, kissed her forehead. “I am so sorry, Myka.”

“Sorry for what?” Myka breathed. She couldn’t think. Helena was pressed up against her, eyes darkly intense.

She could feel Helena’s sigh on her lips, “Please remember that I am not the enemy.” Helena leaned forward and closed the distance between them, her lips were hot on Myka’s – and full of desperation and promise. Myka kissed her back with everything that she did not know how to say. She was beginning to feel as though she had fallen in love with Helena Wells, and there was a good chance that Helena would soon disappear again.

Helena’s fingers ran down Myka’s front, her eyes never leaving Myka’s as their lips parted. Myka was out of breath, but Helena seemed barely phased. “Remember.”

And then she was gone, Myka heard the fire door open and close and the rapid approach of footsteps. Her fingers flew to her lips to touch where Helena had just kissed her so commandingly.

“ _Dude,_ ” Came the voice of Pete Lattimer, Myka turned to see both he and Claudia hurrying their way down the long corridor of bookshelves towards her. He skidded to a stop in front of Myka and gave her what must have been the best semblance of a bright and friendly smile he could. “HG Wells just _kissed_ you!”

Myka opened her mouth, closed it, and then opened it again. She didn’t know what to say. “HG Wells..?” She turned to stare off in the direction of where Helena had disappeared to, disbelief clearly written across every aspect of her visage.

x

“What is that thing?” Myka asked Pete as they sat next to the girl – Jessica Carter – at the ambulance. She didn’t remember anything that had happened in the library, for which Myka was grateful. She gestured to the metallic bag that Helena had put the hatchet in. It was sitting across Pete’s lap.

Pete gave Myka a rueful smile, “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try me.” Myka stuck out her chin defiantly, but Pete drew his finger across his lips and mimed throwing away the key. Myka wondered if he was even an adult or just an overgrown child and shook her head as he waggled his eyebrows at her. She couldn’t help it, it was rather endearing.

She reached for the bag in his lap, curious as to the contents. She’d seen the hatchet, and how the bag had sparked when Helena had put it in there, but Myka could not for the life of her figure out how that had happened. It looked like just an ordinary hatchet, used for cutting wood and the like. She’d used one when she and her parents had gone camping when she was a kid.

Back when everything in her life had made sense.

Pete shifted, his shoulders tensing through the fabric of his t-shirt and he laid his hand across Myka’s and shook his head. “Just don’t,” he said quietly. “There are things that you shouldn’t know.”

Myka hated need-to-know stuff like this, she really truly did. She knew better than to question it; she had been trained to respect the work that her compatriots did. Sometimes just knowing would be enough to put their lives into danger, Myka did not want to take that risk ever again.

She stared out at the scene before her. Students milling around, gawking as firefighters hurried in and out of the building – a gas main had somehow broken in the confusion of Jessica Carter’s attacking her boyfriend with the hatchet. It had begun to drizzle, and Myka pulled her jacket more closely around her body, shivering against the cold.

Her lips still burned, she couldn’t get the feel of Helena pressed so completely against her out of her mind.

From the back seat of Pete’s rented SUV, Claudia was moodily clicking away at something on the computer. Myka turned to watch her through the window of the car. It wasn’t tinted, she could see the hurt and disbelief clearly written across Claudia’s expressive face. This mission had apparently not gone as well as Claudia had hoped, Myka knew that look well.

“She’s a junior agent,” Pete had offered by way of explanation when the NYPD had rolled up and he’d flashed his badge at them to explain away his presence. They’d questioned him more, but Pete’s voice commanded authority and Myka was impressed by how he’d managed to corral all of their doubt and push it into a better course of action – evacuating the building.

Myka could see how young Claudia was; she could a lot of herself – ten years ago – in Claudia. It was a little unnerving, honestly.

Claudia was glaring at her over her laptop screen, as if daring Myka to do something. Myka shifted and nudged Pete, “What’s up with her?” She hadn’t meant to ask, but the question fell out of her mouth before she’d had time to fully think it through. It wasn’t her place, or any of her business, really.

“The woman who kissed you earlier – Helena, you said her name was?” Pete sighed and fingered the metallic bag in his lap. “We know her because she killed someone who was threatening the only place Claudia’s ever called home.”

 _Then why is she so angry with me?_ Myka thought desperately. It didn’t make any sense.

There, again. Helena had killed someone. Myka couldn’t abide by that. “Did she really?” Myka still wasn’t sure she believed it.

Pete nodded and ran a hand through his hair. “Look, I really can’t tell you much more than that, but be careful around her. She isn’t who she seems.”

Myka later decided that Pete thinks he’s a big damn hero and wants to point out that sometimes it’s better to talk to other people on your quest to save the world. Not everyone can go at it alone.

They left a few minutes later, fading into nothingness as Myka stayed with Jessica Carter to make sure she got home safely. She took the train all the way to Jessica’s stop in Brooklyn before she felt confident that the girl was going to make it home in one piece.

And then Myka walked. She’d gone nearly fifteen blocks before she found another subway station and slowly made her way home. The train moved sluggishly through the spitting rain and Myka stared out at each passing stop that took her further downtown, closer to her tiny and unwelcoming apartment.

There would be no comfort there. No explanation for everything that she had seen or witnessed today. All there would be was an empty bed and the sense that maybe she was going about this whole ‘healing’ thing all wrong.

Myka unlocked the door wearily and flipped on the light. Everything was in its place – there was no breaking and entering this time around. She was almost grateful for that.

She crossed into the kitchen and opened the cupboard over the sink. Her fingers touched the cool of one of the shot glasses that had survived her college years as well as the time she’d spent in Denver. She pulled down the glass, and then the bottle next to it.

Good whiskey, as a rule, should be savored and sipped. Myka had taken after her father in that respect, curling up with a good book and a glass of this stuff, contemplating the words of long dead writers long after she should be in bed. Tonight, however, Myka did not want to sip and savor the drink, she wanted to forget what she’d seen.

Shot in hand, she closed her eyes and threw it back, enjoying the feel of the whiskey as it burned its way down through her stomach and settled there, warmth spreading outwards. She coughed, just a little, and poured herself a glass of water out of the pitcher she’d set to filter yesterday in the refrigerator.

A post it note fluttered down the door Myka pushed it shut and she bent, water glass still in hand to find a phone number in hand writing clearly not her own. She stared at it for a minute, memorizing the numbers, before tucking the note into her pocket.

Something creaked from her bedroom and Myka started, eyes narrowing. “Who’s there?”

She couldn’t take much more of this. Her nerves were shot and Myka knew if this happened any more, she was going to start to get paranoid. She’d just finally relaxed enough to get over what had happened with Sam – she couldn’t take a relapse.

Plus it was goddamn annoying. Did _anyone_ have any respect for privacy anymore?

“Turn the light on,” Myka’s hand shot out and hit the switch above the stove. There was a dark-skinned woman with horn-rimmed glasses sitting at one of the stools above the island. A tall, thick-looking man stood behind her, mute and menacing. Myka dropped her glass and backed up against the refrigerator, water soaking into her socks and pant legs. “Myka Bering, you have been reinstated.”

Her hands shook and Myka’s eyes narrowed, peering at the woman, “Sorry, what?” She knew that she should be lunging for her phone, dialing the cops, the super, anyone who could potentially get her out of this situation with a crazy person sitting at her kitchen island as though it was the most innocent thing in the world.

The woman bridged her fingers and pursed her lips, “Myka Bering, I am offering you a ticket out of this dead-end job.”

Myka opened and closed her mouth several times – confusion clearly written across her face.

“You are a secret service agent, one of the most promising young minds if the reports are to be believed – you do not belong here.” The woman had a kind look about her, but she was so damn intimidating that Myka didn’t dare make a move for a weapon. She didn’t think she could take down the goon that this woman had with her that easily. Probably weighed a third of what he did.

So she played along. She leaned forward, eyes still cautious and asked, “Then where do I belong?”

Myka was pretty sure she knew already. It was the same reason that she’d followed Pete and Claudia across the green and into that potentially hazardous situation in the library at Hudson. The same reason that she’d chased after Helena and had stuck around after to make sure that Pete and Claudia – as well as Jessica Carter – were okay.

She loved teaching, loved her work, but it was not her true calling.

“You’re bringing me back…” Myka breathed.

The dark-skinned woman smiled, slow, menacing. Myka shivered despite herself.

The security guy held up a packet of papers and a three-ring binder so thick that Myka wasn’t entirely sure how it remained closed. Papers were practically burgeoning forth from the seams and when it finally found its way into her outstretched hands, Myka was shocked at how heavy it was. She shifted it onto the counter, in front of the dark haired woman and turned to the envelope.

“You have a flight out of LaGuardia tomorrow at three.” The woman’s lip curled. She nodded to the gigantic binder on the countertop. “And there is some in-flight reading.”

That was it; Myka couldn’t handle it any more. Her hands clenched into fists and she practically spat the words, “Just who are you?”

She was trying to be subtle, shifting her weight, but her body motions fell short when she read the codes along the top of the paper. They were legit, and from as near to the top as they could be. She swallowed, knowing that going for the knife she’d left in the sink yesterday morning wasn’t the best plan. She didn’t know what to do.

“My name is Frederic, you work for me now.”

A million thoughts flew through Myka’s brain. She knew that she could not directly disobey an order, not one as high-ranking as this. Thoughts of the life she had in New York, at Hudson. She had a few acquaintances there, no one who would really miss her other than a few of her students and Helena. Oh god, Helena who was apparently not who she said she was. Myka swallowed, processing one thing at a time, “But my classes, I can’t just up and leave…”

“That will be taken care of.” Frederic stood, her eyes flashing dangerously as she pulled the coat that she’d draped over the countertop back onto her shoulders. “You have until noon tomorrow to tie up any loose ends here. That does not include seeking out the woman you’ve been seeing, Agent Bering.”

Myka blinked – was there anything this woman didn’t know? “Helena?”

Frederic nodded. Her eyes looked almost pained as Myka’s hand fell to the pocket of her jeans, resting on the carefully folded note concealed there. “Take the note she left you and go to where you’re told. All will be explained in time.” Frederic straightened her coat. “Your relationship with her may prove useful yet.”

Myka frowned, she would not be used. It wasn’t fair – not how the government worked at all. She felt like she was being shanghaied into going to wherever it was that she was being sent. She didn’t want to go, there were so many questions that she didn’t have the answers to right now. She was afraid, terrified, that she would do wrong.

She was a member of the US Secret Service. If called upon, she was always ready to do her sworn duty.

“Wait…” She said, flipping open the envelope, they were sending her to Sioux Falls, South Dakota. “What should I bring with me?”

Frederic’s smile was cool and collected, “Pack light. We’ll ship what you need and store the rest.” Frederic paused, “Also we will take care of the fact that you broke your lease.”

She mouths her thanks and Frederic sweeps her way out of the door, her voice calling down the hall, “In time, Agent Bering.”

x

 _Have been called out of Secret Service retirement, will call when I arrive on assignment._

The text, Myka felt, read stupidly. She was standing in a town in the middle of nowhere – a town that she wasn’t even sure had a name. Her rental car was currently parked at a gas station and her apparent destination as just ten miles away from her.

The drive from Sioux Falls had been long and entirely too boring. There was nothing but conservative talk and country music on the radio and Myka wasn’t entirely in the mood for either and the badlands stretched out for miles in front of her in every direction. There was, quite literally, nothing to see here. It was as unknown as it came. Myka was exhausted, and the reading that she’d done on the flight over here had been informative, but terrifying and confusing.

Apparently there were things that went bump in the night, and she was going to become one of those who bumped back.

Not that she believed in _any_ of that, but she had seen how the other agents who worked at this ‘Warehouse’ had functioned in the field and Myka wasn’t entirely sure that she wanted anything to do with it.

So she sent Helena a text and went inside to pay cash for her gas because the pump didn’t accept credit cards. She hoped that Helena wouldn’t be angry – as she was apparently somehow connected to this place as well – that she wouldn’t judge Myka for taking the chance when she could.

She climbed back into the rental just as her phone rang, Jefferies, from Hudson. She answered it, “Bering.”

“Myka, where the fuck are you?” Jefferies’ voice was loud and brash and entirely _New York_ , Myka winced and put the car into gear, shifting as one tentatively does in a new car – unsure of where the clutch catches. “You have classes this morning that you’re completely skipped.”

“Alan,” Myka began, taking a deep breath and turning where the onboard GPS indicated. “I’m really sorry, something’s come up that I cannot actively refuse.” She shook her head. He was an academic, he had no idea how to cope with the duty and obligation that came with being a Secret Service agent. He couldn’t know.

“Myka, unless the fucking president himself ordered you to wherever you’re going you get your ass back here right now -“ But Myka didn’t hear any more. She’d dropped the phone onto the seat next to her, amid the remains of the sandwich she’d eaten for lunch and her carry-on bag from the airplane. She felt oddly at peace, as though she was doing something for herself, for once.

This wasn’t about Sam, or about her father. This was about Myka Bering.

Myka pushed the accelerator and sped off down the town’s single road. Dust curled around the back of her car and soon she was once again driving with nothing but the badlands surrounding her.

“Turn right,” There was a gate just next to the road, metal and rusted over. Recent tire tracks cut across the grass there and Myka could see a clear trail heading off into the distance and over a ridge. This place, Myka realized, whatever it was, was going to be _hell_ in the winter.

She stopped the car, got out and opened the gate. She didn’t think that she should leave it open, so she eased the car into first and slowly made her way across the gate’s threshold and then stopped again and closed it. It felt strange, like she was coming home. She’d never been here before, but it felt more right than teaching ever had.

As Myka drove over the grassy ridge, a large building came into view, built into the side of a rocky outcropping of hills. She drove closer and could see several cars parked out in front of it. Myka exhaled, staring up at the rusty shell of a building, noting the satellite and radio antennas on top of the roof. Obviously, this place was far more advanced than its outward appearance let on.

She parked next to an older looking Grand AM – and got out. Her suit felt ill-fitting in the heat of the sun, but Myka exhaled quietly. This was new, this was different, this almost felt like belonging.

She reached into her pocket and pulled out her cell phone, fingers dancing over the keys. She didn’t know what to tell Helena, but she had to say something, she owed Helena that much.

 __

Wish you could see this place.


	7. Best Served Cold - Or, Welcome to Warehouse 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein there are some details of the past revealed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'ed by the lovely Spockette.

“You would never believe the look on my face when they told me to come out here and get you, Myka Bering,” Myka jumped about a foot in the air, startled as she hastily shoved away her cell phone back into her suit coat’s pocket. It felt strange, like she wasn’t supposed to be using such modern technology so far out into the wilderness. Pete Lattimer was standing where he would be just obscured by the awning of the building, holding what appeared to be a beat-up old football in his hands.

Myka smiled at him. “Why am I not surprised to see you here, Pete Lattimer?” She asked as he tossed the football from hand to hand. He was wearing an AC-DC t-shirt and jeans and sunglasses and looking for all the world as though he was the most excited that he had ever been.

He most certainly was not, but there was a nice ring to it that brought a smile to Myka’s face. She liked the idea that he was happy to see her. It gave her a sense of instant belonging, far more than she’d ever felt in New York.

“Probably because I’m incredibly charming,” Pete flashed her a smile and Myka rolled her eyes.

She shifted her briefcase further up her shoulder, laptop and that goddamn million page long manual weighing it down, making her shoulder ache. Pete was wiggling his eyebrows at her now, being almost lewd in the way that he was looking at her. There was still that playful smile around his mouth, and when he turned his head, Myka could see the crinkle around his eyes behind his sunglasses. He was simply teasing.

Myka decided that she might as well tease back; “In case you didn’t notice, I don’t swing that way.”

He cocked his head to one side, took two steps back and hurled the football up and into the air. Myka watched as it flew off and never showed signs of slowing, propelled further than she’d ever seen a football thrown before. It vanished into nothingness and Pete dusted his hands off. “Mighta seen that one a-coming when you had a hot ass woman shoving her tongue down your throat yesterday.”

They shared a smile and Myka was instantly comfortable. He didn’t care, it didn’t bother him that she wasn’t interested in having a more than professional working relationship with him. Oddly, it made her feel welcomed, if a little confused. She wasn’t used to people being so friendly. New Yorkers certainly were not. “What was that?”

“Football,” Pete said simply.

Myka gave him a ‘go-on’ gesture with her chin.

“Used to be Joe Montana’s when he was a kid,” Pete added, running a still dirty (Myka could see the dirt collected around his fingertips) hand through his hair. _Gross._ “I’m no good at explaining this stuff.”

She could give him that. If she’d had to explain why a football could be thrown forever, she probably wouldn’t want to get stuck with the burden if she could avoid it. Her shoulder was killing her. She wanted a place to put her things down and acclimate herself to this gigantic hulking shell of a building where she apparently now worked. “Sooo,” she drawled, long and drawn out. “Why am I here?”

Pete laughed at the question, his eyes full of recognition and acknowledgement of Myka’s plight. “Mrs. F didn’t give you any details did she?”

Myka shook her head, “Was she supposed to? All she did was hand me a thousand page long technical manual and tell me to get on a plane.” She hefted her shoulder bad and Pete raised an impressed eyebrow.

“You actually read it?” He asked, heading towards the building’s lone metal door.

“Well of course,” Myka wasn’t exactly sure why this was a source of incredulity. When one started a new job it was natural to be familiar with how things worked there. To know policy and regulation was something that Myka prided herself on.

“Ookay,” Pete said in a ‘she is clearly insane’ sort of voice. Myka’d heard that before, it wasn’t new. She was a bit of an oddity, she’d long accepted that. But seriously, you should always read the manual. Pete pulled open the door darkness greeting them on the other side, and gestured for her to follow him, “Come inside, Artie will explain everything.” Pete rubbed his hands together. “Claud’s gunna be so excited!”

That made Myka’s ears perk up. She stepped forward hurriedly, crossing the threshold into the darkness of the massive building. “Claudia’s here too?”

Pete nodded, keyed a code into the second door, and opened to the harsh fluorescent light of a long tube-like hallway. “This is brand new, just got put back in. The stairs were killer.”

Myka walked by a large bolt in the floor labeled ‘warning explosive’ and stared at it, “Did it blow up or something?”

Pete sighed, “You don’t know the _half_ of it.”

And so they made their way down the very terrifying hallway, Myka clutching her bag to her chest to avoid bumping into the explosive bolts that seemed to hold the structure together. She shifted apprehensively from foot to foot as Pete paused in front of a very high tech-looking retinal scanner and keyed in a punch code. The door hissed as it opened and Pete gave a mock bow, “After you.”

Myka stepped through the doorway, and into another world.

Clutter filled the large open space, papers and an archaic-looking filing system dominated the far wall, along with a series of windows that were slatted open. A dim light emanated from just outside them and Myka could make out a vast expansive space just hidden there. She swallowed, and glanced around the rest of the room.

Two desks and two ancient-looking computers seemed to dominate them both, papers and maps strewn about the other surfaces. On a white board off to one side, Myka could see what looked to be a case in progress – newspaper articles and photographs were tacked there with what looked to be blue sticky gum and a lot of indecipherable handwriting and arrows connected the pictures.

“She’s here? Oh good,” A small, bespectacled man with the most impressive eyebrows that Myka had ever seen cut across the room carrying a small pile of papers. He set them down on top of an even larger stack and turned to face Myka.

This was the man that she’d seen in Pete’s communication device yesterday!

He stepped forward and held out his hand, Myka took it, surprised to find his fingers rough and covered in callouses. He had a firm handshake and a piercing look about him. Myka was instantly intrigued by his demeanor. “You are Myka Bering – formerly of the Denver branch of the Secret Service. We had hoped that you would go to DC after that had happened, improve your career.”

Myka blinked and let her hand drop to her side. It hurt to admit it, because she had seriously considered doing just that. She’d looked into it, even seriously considered calling in a favor from one of the higher ups that she knew in DC – but it hadn’t felt _right._ She had needed to get out of law enforcement, just for a little while.   
“I-” Myka began, but she was cut off with a series of hand waving and mutterings.

“Regardless, you’re here now. We could use the help.” He smiled at her, before his face became brisk and businesslike once again. “Arthur Nielsen, everyone calls me Artie.”

She smiled at him, “Nice to meet you.”

“Now, you were there for the retrieval of George Washington’s Hatchet, were you not?” Artie clapped his hands together and shifted a few piles of paper around on his desk, eventually unearthing the silver wrapped bag that Helena had shoved the hatchet into after Jessica Carter had dropped it.

Myka glanced over at Pete, who gave her an encouraging nod. “Yeah, guess I was.”

“Good, good,” Artie seemed excited at the notion of this. “That means you’ve already seen an artifact retrieval. Makes our lives a lot easier.”

She wanted to say ‘a what’ but she was pretty sure she knew what he was talking about already. The manual that she’d read on the plane hadn’t made much sense, but Myka had been able to pull that much information out of it easily. Artifacts were objects that had become infused with the power of… whatever, that made them do bad things. Or good things, or both. The definition was a little lacking.

Myka was a teacher, a professor. She read old books, and tried to get others to care for them as deeply as she did. As much as this sounded like a wonderful, amazing career move, she couldn’t help but think that she was woefully out of her league. She hadn’t even carried her gun as it was now, strapped to her belt, in two years. She wasn’t sure she still remembered protocol.

 _That’s a lie._

“Anyway, this,” Artie held up the metallic bag. “This is a static bag; it temporarily neutralizes artifacts in the field. Sometimes – let me know if it stops being effective. Quite a lovely little invention, honestly. Telsa’s finger prints are all over that one as well. When you go into the field, make sure you always have several of these handy.”

And thus, Myka was dragged into a world filled with wonderment. The shelves of this place were positively _crawling_ with history. History that Myka didn’t know, that she should know, that she didn’t want to know. Everything had its place; it was actually pretty meticulously organized. Artie and Pete – Claudia joined them once they started into the Warehouse proper, took Myka around and showed her everything that she would need to know in order to work there.

It was strange, Myka knew that she should be skeptical, but she’d seen how that girl had been affected by the artifact and she didn’t feel comfortable with dismissing it all as tomfoolery and hearsay. She wasn’t like that – maybe once up on a time she had been, but maybe not going to DC like Artie and apparently Mrs. Frederic had wanted was a good move on Myka’s part. It had given her the space to relax.

She always knew that she’d go back someday. Doing this, the job and being with the people who loved it as much as she did had always been in her blood.

Still, the warehouse was fantastic, amazing, there were so many words that Myka could think of to describe it and they were all derivations of the original two. She had seen a thesaurus stuck onto one of the shelves and had debated pulling it down to try and find the perfect word to describe how this place made her feel.

Pete and Artie were arguing about if Claudia should continue to go into the field, a few steps ahead of Myka and the subject of their debate.

“I’m sorry – about before,” Myka said quietly. She recalled how Claudia had seemed so disbelieving, so angry at her yesterday. She knew what it was like to be a young adult, just moving on into the world of mature being a grown-up-ness. It wasn’t pleasant and it certainly wasn’t easy.

She gave Claudia a half-smile; a little distracted by the shrunken head on a stick that was resting on the shelf just beside Claudia’s left shoulder. This place was going to give her the creeps, or drive her to drink, or both.

Claudia shook her head, green streak flying off over her ear. She turned, grimaced at the shrunken head and grabbed Myka’s arm, pulling them away from Pete and Artie and across and over into the next aisle. Myka hoped that Claudia knew her way around the place _really_ well, because she was already hopelessly turned around and she didn’t think that starving to death in a gargantuan warehouse in South Dakota was really the best way to go out.

Leaning up against a tall and teetering tower of trunks Claudia shook her head. She gestured to the pin on her jacket, ‘No H8’ – Myka knew the campaign well – and gave a sympathetic smile. “Nah man, it’s okay – I just wasn’t expecting _her_ to be all into the ladies.” Claudia ran a hand through her hair. “I mean, she’s from the fucking 1890s…”

“Does it bother you that I am?” Myka asked quietly. She still didn’t believe that Helena was a time traveler; she couldn’t, not until she heard it in Helena’s own words. It just didn’t make any sense – Myka wasn’t inclined to believe a lot of things that Artie had told her about this place anyway.

There was no way that having this many dangerous objects in such close quarters was a good idea. The occasional sparks of lightning that flashed up and down the aisles seemed to prove that point loudly and clearly.

She would talk to Helena, ask her. Helena wouldn’t lie, she hadn’t done it yet.

Claudia shook her head animatedly. “Not at all.”

Myka gave her a little, half-smile. “It’s nice, being around people who don’t care.”

“If we were bothered by something as trivial as that, we would never get anything done here,” Claudia gestured towards the ceiling, “Have you seen the crazy stuff that goes on here?”

She hadn’t, but Myka guessed that it was quite crazy. The shrunken heads and swords seemed to prove that quite clearly. And then there was the matter of the canned food aisle that they’d gone down a little while ago. She was afraid to ask just _what_ was up with that.

Artie’s voice called for them both and they cut across the next aisle and a rather ominous looking bath tub gurgled at them as they caught up to Artie and Pete. Myka felt content, welcome. She wasn’t exactly sure what her job was, and when Artie pulled her aside and explained to her that she wasn’t to continue her relationship with HG Wells, she had simply smiled and nodded. There was no way that they could tell her to do that, and when her pocket buzzed and she pulled out her phone to find a meticulously typed text from Helena, she didn’t say a word.

It was just an address, one in town if Google maps were to be believed. A coffee shop and place for local nightlife, they had a website. Myka had perused it on Artie’s computer in a moment of downtime between Artie explaining things so complicated that Myka had trouble following, and Pete and Claudia excitedly telling her about their previous adventures. There was no time included with the text and when they all trooped back to the bed and breakfast where they apparently lived, Myka escaped at the first possible opportunity, citing a few personal items she needed to pick up in town.

She didn’t know why she lied.

Or rather, she did. She wanted to see Helena, to know if what they were saying at the warehouse was the truth. If Myka knew that, then she could make her decision, she could _know_ , without a doubt if she wanted to continue their relationship.

There was so much about Helena that intrigued her, Myka did not want to give up on what they had just barely beginning just because of what a bunch of people at a warehouse in South Dakota had to say about it. She wouldn’t let them make the decision for her.

The main street of Univille was close to deserted, but there were a few cars in the lot behind the coffee shop. Myka parked and went inside, apprehension growing like a knot at the base of her stomach. The last time she’d seen Helena, they’d kissed and Myka still wanted more of that. Helena’s lips had felt so good, so _right_ against her own.

It wasn’t hard to find her target, nursing a glass of dark beer at a table as far away from the bar, and the rest of the people in the coffee shop as possible. Myka paused at the bar, contemplating the beers on tap and then deciding that none looked particularly appetizing. “Sam Adams if you’ve got it,” she said to the bartender, who nodded and disappeared beneath the bar for a moment before coming up with a bottle. He smiled at her as he popped the top and handed it to her.

Myka handed over her credit card and nodded, the bartender would keep the tab open. She set her beer down in front of Helena and sank into the chair opposite her. “I never pictured you to be a beer drinker.”

“In over one hundred years, the taste of this swill has not changed,” Helena murmured. She took a sip, froth brushing against her nose. She set her glass down and pulled a handkerchief out of her pocket and whipped her mouth. “It’s strange, really, you’d think they would find a way of improving on it.”

“Why fix something that isn’t broken?” Myka asked with a closed-off smile. “Guinness?”

“Am I that predictable?” Helena asked with a raised eyebrow.

Myka shrugged, “It was the only beer from your neck of the woods on tap. Call it a guess.” She was a trained investigator and agent, she could connect dots from point a to point b like the best of them. Sometimes, intuitive and analytical reasoning had gotten her into trouble at Hudson, but it seemed, already, that here they would be put to the test in many new and interesting ways.

They fell into a comfortable silence, Helena’s hand snaked across the table to touch Myka’s, and lingered there. Helena traced small circles on Myka’s palm with her index finger, staring off into the distance.

“Once, in India, I faced a firing squad for treason.” She said at length, hair falling into her eyes from where it had been tucked behind her ears. She looked so young then, so lost.

Myka set her beer down. “And that is a story you will tell me someday.”

Helena smiled, slow and easy. “I have no doubt,” She sighed, bangs falling into her eyes. She fiddled with the napkin on the table, almost refusing to look at Myka. “I felt much the same then as I do now,” Helena admitted quietly.

“How’s that?” Myka asked. She knew the answer before she even asked. It didn’t take much to know that Helena was terrified of doing this wrong, of somehow losing Myka because of a stupid half-truth that she’d told Myka upon their first meeting at the book shop.

“Terrified, apprehensive – I’ve never done this before, I’m afraid I’ll not do it justice.” Helena looked up at Myka then, eyes dark and intense. “I am HG Wells, you know. They weren’t lying about that.”

Hearing it from Helena’s own lips make the reality of it – the _enormity_ of it, sink in for Myka. She didn’t know what to say. How could Helena possibly be HG Wells – she was pretty sure that the Warehouse manual said that time travel was impossible. She shifted, suddenly uncomfortable in her seat. “That’s what they told me.” She didn’t know what else to say.

Helena’s eyes felt like they could pierce straight through Myka. Her jaw muscles flexed on her cheek, as though she was gritting her teeth, Myka swallowed, not knowing what to say, or how to react to the dark and venomous look that had appeared on Helena’s face. “What else did they say?”

“That you were imprisoned because of something you did, frozen in time for your sins,” Myka said, repeating almost verbatim what Artie had told her earlier. “And that nothing good ever comes out of that place.”

Helena looked away, her hand pulling away from Myka’s, clenching into a fist. It shook in midair as Myka watched Helena try to compose herself. “I asked for it, Myka.” Helena whispered quietly. “Because I was afraid of what I might do.”

Myka swallowed, her breath felt hot in her throat. She reached out, fingers closing around Helena’s clenched fist. Helena’s skin was warm on her own. Her body temperature seemed to have settled, her touch no longer burned Myka, it was nice. Comforting. Myka liked being touched by other people.

“What could you have possibly done to deserve a fate like that?” The question tumbled out of her mouth before Myka realized that she really didn’t want to know. She couldn’t stand see her image of Helena Wells, this beautiful and charming woman with her old-fashioned charm and captivating dark eyes, destroyed by actions of a century ago. It didn’t make sense, it didn’t seem fair.

Who the hell would do something like that to a person? Pete, after Artie had bustled away to get some paperwork for Myka to sign, had stood next to one of the bronze figures for a long moment before saying, oh so quietly, that he was sorry.

They were awake, cognizant, while encased in bronze.

Helena had been like that. For over one hundred years.

Myka swallowed, she really didn’t want to know.

“I was apprenticed at Warehouse 12, I was surrounded by artifacts and in more pain that any woman should ever have to be in.” Helena took a sip of her beer, set the glass down and pulled the necklace that Myka had noticed around her neck two nights ago – when they’d fallen into bed (and platonic sleeping) together. She unclasped it and passed it over to Myka, offering it palm up, peaceful. “Here.”

Inside the locket, it turned out to be a locket as Myka carefully pried open the old hinge; was a photograph of a little girl. It was well oiled, cared for, obviously Helena worried on it when she was stressed, finger prints covered the silver surface. She had Helena’s dark eyes and hair, and was grinning cheekily at the camera. Myka did the math and the history in her head; it was unlikely that another photograph of this little girl existed. Photography in the 1880s was a still considered a luxury, it wasn’t until the turn of the century that George Eastman’s portable cameras really became wide spread. “Who is she?”

“That is my Christina, my daughter.” Myka looked up sharply and Helena shook her head sadly. “She was killed in 1890. Murdered to satisfy the greed of men.”

Myka closed the locket, carefully, almost tenderly passing it back to the woman across the table from her. Helena accepted it gratefully, pulling it back over her head and doing the clasp expertly. Myka wondered how many times she’d done up that necklace in her life. “Helena I’m so sorry,” she breathed.

There was that dark look again. Helena’s jaw was set, angry and harsh. Myka wanted to reach out to her, but she was in a bar in rural South Dakota and she didn’t want to get beaten up for being overtly affectionate with another woman. She wasn’t an idiot, she was aware of her surroundings.

Helena’s voice was thick with emotion, she was clearly forcing the words out despite not wanting to say them. Myka was grateful she was being told the truth by Helena, not the series of half-truths that she’d gotten from Artie at the warehouse. She almost doubted that he knew the real reason why Helena was even awake at all, he certainly had seemed jumpy when she’d mentioned that all they’d ever really talked about were Helena’s books and other science fiction. Granted, Myka’d left out the kissing and the sleeping and the fact that Helena could make her swoon with just a _look_ , a girl had to have some secrets. “After what I did to them, I knew I could not be trusted, I could feel my mind slipping. My choices were the bronzer or the farm, and given that you know a good bit about my time, you can understand why I was hesitant to go off to the farm.”

She’d forgotten. _Oh god,_ Myka swallowed. A woman so depressed as Helena must have been would have been sent to a mental institution, a ‘farm’ where she would be worked to death with the other mentally challenged individuals housed there.

It made sense, to go into a hellish world of your own thoughts than to be killed by people who didn’t make an effort to understand your plight. Myka would have done the same thing. “I wouldn’t blame you for a second,” Myka said resolutely. “Helena why didn’t you say anything to me?”

Helena gave a harsh, barking laugh. “What would I have told you? That I am no better than my time traveler? Waking up in a world that is so alien to me I think I’m on another planet?” She shook her head, eyes lost behind her hair and the glass she was lifting to her lips. After she swallowed, Helena continued, “No, I wrote that because I wanted to prove that time travel was possible, I wanted the change the past.”

Myka raised an eyebrow at her. “Did you succeed?”

“No.” A look of panic came over Helena’s face before it was smoothed away to carefully neutral. Myka wondered how Helena did that, how she managed to remain so calm. She supposed that Helena had been raised to control herself in public, to never get emotional if at all possible. It would have not been proper. “I hypothesize that because the past is already written, it cannot be changed, I tried – it did not work and only made the anguish more acute.”

Myka shook her beer bottle, it was empty. She didn’t feel like another. She stood, chair scraping against the floor as she got to her feet. She’d have to settle her tab on the way out. “Helena…” She said, offering Helena a hand and pulling her upright, “Come with me, I’ll drive you back to where you’re staying.”

“Motel on Kings Street.” A small smirk played across Helena’s features as she pulled two one-dollar bills out of her pocket and left them on the table. Myka moved over towards the bar and gestured for her card, smiling apologetically for opening a tab for a single drink.

She signed the receipt and pocketed her copy before turning to her companion, who was apparently lost in thought, contemplating the menu specials as they were displayed in neon light. “Come on?” she asked with a raised eyebrow.

“How do they get them to light up so brightly?” Helena wondered out loud as they exited the bar.

“Neon,” Myka said simply.

That was greeted with a raised eyebrow from Helena as Myka unlocked her car door and held the key so that the passenger door unlocked as well. She got in, waiting for Helena to get in as well. “The element?” Helena asked, leaning forward and in. Her mouth was so close to Myka’s as she flicked on the car’s lights and put it into gear.

Myka pulled her head away. There’d be time, later. “Yeah.”

They drove off into the night, Helena’s hand resting on Myka’s thigh. It made it hard to shift, but Myka didn’t care. She welcomed the warm weight.

“I’m sorry that I upset you,” she said at length as she found a parking spot at the motel. She turned, jacket rustling as she did so, and met Helena’s dark gaze. “I didn’t mean to.”

Helena gave her a half-smile, fingers brushing against Myka’s cheek. “I am glad you asked. It has been my experience that hearing the story from the source is usually for the best.”

Myka, impulsive, impatient, leaned forward and kissed Helena then. She wanted to say so much, to explain how it didn’t matter at all, how she didn’t care that Helena was one hundred years out of time, that she had killed the man who had pulled her from her angst and pain filled sleep. She knew then, as Helena’s fingers traced their way along her cheeks that she couldn’t not have Helena.

They stumbled out of the car, Myka locked the doors and Helen fiddled with the room key for a few moments before handing it to Myka who showed her how to work it.

“What’s wrong with actual _keys_?” Helena muttered moodily as she pulled off her jacket and tossed it over the back of the overstuffed chair that occupied one corner of the room.

Myka laughed, stepping forward and into Helena’s personal space. She tugged on the collar of Helena’s shirt. “They’re far too old _fashioned,”_ she said, grinning broadly as Helena made an annoyed face at the keycard that Myka set onto the table next to them.

And then they were kissing again, Helena pulling Myka over towards the bed, pushing her down. This wasn’t exactly how Myka had envisioned her evening going, and she didn’t think that Helena had planned for it either. They were just two people in that moment, their lips pressed together, Myka quickly losing the battle for control of the situation underneath Helena’s skilled hands.

x

Sometime later, Myka’s cellphone rang in her pants pocket and she had to roll off the side of the bed to get to it before it went to voicemail. Pete was on the other line, asking if she’d gotten lost on the way back. She had told him she’d stopped for a drink and that she would be home soon.

She felt significantly cockblocked by the whole situation, if she was perfectly honest with herself – but she knew she couldn’t linger.

“I didn’t expect you to stay.” Helena said as Myka hung up the phone and began to button up her shirt. Her hair was mussed and sticking out a bit on one side, Myka reached out and smoothed it flat as best she could, a fond smile on her face. “I suppose that they would expect you back.”

Myka sighed. She did hate this, she would not be sneaking around for much longer if she could at all avoid it. “Yeah. I’m sorry, I’d rather stay.”

“It’s probably for the best,” Helena shrugged and flopped back on the bed, hands curling loosely on the pillow by the sides of her head. “In the morning I must be off anyway – I must seek out what is hidden in plain sight.”

“What?”

Helena smiled, “That you will learn in time.”

There were words that Myka wanted to say, words that she feared to articulate. She wasn’t good at this, she was just a person. She loved books (and wasn’t too keen on teaching) and knew how to use a gun better than most guys that she’d gone through training with.

“Will I see you again?” Fear at the idea of losing Helena filled her. “I … I can’t not see you.”

Helena smiled, grinning as she shifted, hand under her body. She wriggled for a minute before producing the same cell phone that Myka had seen her use back in New York. It oddly looked more out of place now, in the hands of a woman Myka knew for certain was lost and out of time. “Darling – I am here,” She held up her phone. “While I am still learning, you can always reach me here.”

“But,” Myka began, trying to force the words that she feared to say out.

“No buts, sweet Myka. It is not our time just yet. There will be a time when I can stay with you, but there are matters that must be attended to first.” Helena rose and walked around the rumpled bed. She reached out, leaning forward, pulling Myka to her.

“Helena, I…” Myka tried, before deciding it was too soon. She swallowed, Helena’s eyes were dark and intense, meeting her own gaze unblinkingly. “I think I might-”

“Don’t put it into words yet,” Helena kissed her then, sweet and chaste, a lover’s goodbye. “Tell me when you next see me. Now go, and know that I will think of you fondly, and often.”


	8. Partnets and Allies - Or, The Dynamic Duo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein there are sweaty men, reunions, and grappling hooks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'ed by the lovely Spockette

It isn’t easy, to find a person hidden in plain sight. You have to follow Arthur Nielsen around for close to two weeks before your get your first clue, and then you’re off to the races – memory of Myka’s lips pressed against your own at the forefront of your mind. You cannot move past her, you cannot think of anyone other.

All thoughts of your most perfect revenge are driven from your mind.

And then you’ve gone and done what you thought was impossible – you fear you fell in love.

There’s a change in you, a want to go back to doing what you do best.

You write down everything, carefully documenting all that you recall about what your plans had been before you went into the bronze. It is detailed in a leather bound notebook, much like the one you used before, during that time. When you had Woolly as your partner and everything made a little bit more sense.

You looked him up, died in 1916 during the Great War.

You mourn him privately for an afternoon, sitting in a park in Connecticut, watching a house that may or may not lead you to one of the Regents. He made the days bearable back then, and now you have only the memory of that young man and a Warehouse long gone.

Everything is so strange and so new. You don’t know how to cope with it all. You’re struggling, you go to a library at a university in South Carolina and read old newspapers on an infernal contraption that hurts your eyes. You start from when you first went into the bronze, catching up on news and events. Your breath catches when you come to the nineteen forties and find yourself staring at an obituary for her your brother Charles. You suppose that you had expected it, but to see his older, wizened face, one that you never got a chance to see grow into maturity, cuts you up inside. You have to stop, push the microfilm away from you and rest your head in your hands, a dry, wracking sob echoing through your body.

A student using a computer next to you asks you why you don’t just use the Internet; you smile sadly and say that computers are not really your strong suit.

They confuse you endlessly, even the portable – James had called it cellular – telephone that you had been given by that evil man confuses you. You know how to send textual messages, and how to place calls to people. You never use it though, Myka will send you textual messages occasionally, and you respond in kind.

Myka never calls.

You are grateful for that the first time you read about how cellular devices can be compromised by anyone even half-way talented on a computer. So not you, but anyone else worth their salt.

After that you text less frequently, you go to public places and you follow the trail of artifacts – heading places before they become active, desperately searching for a way to win back the good graces of Arthur Nielsen. You doubt he will ever forgive you for killing his partner, it’s for the best, you wouldn’t forgive yourself for such a crime either.

You think about how many times you almost got Wolly killed and hang your head. You were so reckless back then, so foolish. You wanted to die so badly but didn’t have the strength to do it yourself. No, it had to be in a blaze of glory – your most perfect revenge.

In Colorado one afternoon, you encounter an older woman who looks a bit like Myka in coffee shop and smile politely at her, you then turn your attention back to your notes. You’re sure you’ve found it – and you know that you’ll be able to use it as your in.

You compliment the waitress’ Eye of Horus pin on her next pass by and mention that you’ve been to Egypt and its lovely this time of year. In truth, it’s hot and bothersome and you’d rather never return there after being chased away from a tomb by an angry group of locals in 1891; but she doesn’t need know that.

You draw an all-seeing eye on your receipt and write down your cellular telephone’s number on your bill and leave the notebook with everything you recall about Warehouse Two’s location on the table with the five dollars that will cover your tea and a tip.

When you get a telephone call from a Mister Kosan later that evening, you are not at all surprised.

He is the man who makes the decisions, and you have a hard bargain to make.

x

It had been close to three months since their last encounter and Myka was officially out of her probationary period at the warehouse. She missed Helena, acutely and with every fiber of her being. The lack of her presence was a void that Myka never thought she’d have to face again. She’d felt it after Sam had died, it had driven her away from her work, from what she loved and into a fantasy world of half-complete promises and doctoral research she never truly cared about.

Myka vowed that she would not let that happen again. Helena would come back, again. Her continued texts were proof positive of that.

Working for the warehouse was an interesting experiment. Working with Pete was great fun, even invigorating at the times when Myka didn’t feel compelled to punch him. He was a child, boyish, youthful and always sticking his hands into places where it didn’t belong. That had nearly cost him his life – not to mention his dignity – two weeks before.

As she grew more comfortable with the warehouse, Myka began to notice things. Claudia and Pete didn’t really seem to care that she had known HG Wells outside of a warehouse setting, but Artie definitely did. He made a point of pulling her aside and asking her questions, explaining to her what had happened when Helena had returned to the warehouse and killed the man who had pulled her out of the bronzer.

Myka had listened to his arguments, and countered with what she knew. She’d made a point of reading all the files that still existed from Warehouse 12 that documented the actions of one Helena G. Wells. There were many problems that she could see in the record keeping. Helena was well liked by the warehouse though, that much was obvious in the reports.

So she told Artie that her theory as to why Helena had killed James MacPherson was that she was trying to protect the warehouse from whatever it was that the man was planning. Pete had told her of MacPherson’s plot to make artifacts available to the criminal underbelly of the world with hopes of getting rich and creating come chaos. Myka had stressed to Artie that any good warehouse agent – past, present or future, would probably have done the same. Every report that they’d been able to find on HG Wells indicated that _she_ was a fantastic warehouse agent.

She was sorry his friend was dead. Artie was obviously taking it very hard.

They sat together one morning, watching as the sun came up over Leena’s backyard. There were a few fruit trees back there, knotted and gnarled through many South Dakota winters, and in the brief summer, Claudia had told her, birds nested there. Myka longed to see them, and she hoped she’d be here long enough to see winter break into spring.

The past few months had reminded her of her mortality.

“I…” Myka began, staring off into nothingness. “I know you hate her for what she did.”

Artie sighed, and Myka wondered if she was talking herself into too many circles again. If it was best to just let sleeping dragons lie. “One day, when you and Pete have worked together for many, many years, you will understand what it felt like.”

She supposed that she would. “Helena isn’t all that bad, Artie. She’s out of time and I … I don’t think she ever intended to wake up.”

He shook his head and pulled off his glasses, rubbing his eyes tiredly. “No, there were specific instructions that her body was to be moved from warehouse to warehouse as new ones were built but she was never to be debronzed.” He sighed, pushing his hands into his jacket pockets. “That was her final request.”

“A time machine…” Myka breathed.

Artie nodded. “I can’t trust her, because there was a reason she was put there to begin with, and I think you should stay away from her.” He clapped her on the shoulder. “Besides, if she was really good, the Regents-“

He had stopped then, and Myka raised a questioning eyebrow. “Who are the Regents?” She asked. She hadn’t seen mention of them in the manual.

There was no answer for her question. Artie almost never gave them when asked directly, Myka should have known then what it meant. They hid in plain sight.

Helena was trying to contact them.

When Pete had messed with an artifact that confused his mind enough to send him after a Regent, Myka put the pieces together. She spoke to the man that Pete was supposedly after, talked to him about what exactly his job was. Myka got the sense that she wasn’t supposed to be asking such questions, but he was a nice enough man to provide her with something less than the cryptic answers that Artie and Mrs. Frederic were giving her.

They were protectors of the warehouse, average everyday people who just so happened to be called into that line of work. Myka respected that. They seemed to be doing the right thing, not giving the warehouse to popes and kings and countries, but rather to common folk. There was something rather poetic about it.

As Artie managed to break through to Pete and they rescued Benedict Valda from the telegraph-induced haze he was in, Myka sent Helena a text. She curled her phone around herself, and typed it as discretely as she could, curled up in the backseat of an overfull sedan next to Pete. Artie and Valda had taken the front and Artie drove like an old woman.

She was car sick.

 __

You’re looking for the regents, aren’t you?

x

Pete wasn’t cleared for duty on their next mission; his head wasn’t entirely clear from the echoes of the telegraph that had driven him temporarily inside. Myka was alright with that, she wanted him to be as well as possible before they went back out into the field together; she needed him to have her back. This time around, Myka took Claudia out to a small town in north western California to look into some spontaneous combustion on a D-3 college wrestling team.

She honestly wished that Pete could come. She wasn’t great with guys in general and as soon as the wrestling coach led her into a locker room full of half-naked men, Myka’s inward reaction was very much like Claudia’s physical one would be. This was nerve wracking, but she maintained her composure, watchfully eyeing everything curiously.

She’d been in the field alone now a few times – it was alright. She’d rather have Pete with her, as he still knew the ropes a bit better than she did – but Claudia’s conversation was far more intellectually stimulating on the plane and subsequent car trip out to this tiny town in the middle of nowhere.

Claudia was a lot like Myka – she had old wounds that probably would never heal. Her brother had apparently been displaced in time like Helena had been for over ten years. Myka had asked Claudia what his reclamation to the present day had been like and she hadn’t said much, other than that it had been hard. He hadn’t known how to react to the September 11th attacks, or the fact that the US was at war after a decade of not doing that.

She couldn’t imagine what one hundred years would feel like.

Claudia followed her obediently, like a child. She wasn’t great at interviews and Myka could see it on her face. She’d make a great secret service agent someday – Pete had told her that he’s had some college admission stuff for SDU kicking around his bedroom for a while. He was just looking for the right opportunity to give it to Claudia.

Seeing her walk around a college campus with a look of awe on her face and a canister of neutralizer slung over her shoulder opposite her laptop drives the point home for Myka. She gets that paperwork when they get back to South Dakota.

A mind is a terrible thing to waste, after all.

The wrestling coach has a medal, they’re all grabbing it, chanting and being macho and manly. Myka’s instantly glad that the most athletic thing she did in school was fencing – there was none of that macho crap in fencing. Just you, your sword, and your opponent.

(And Myka did enjoy fencing with actual sharp swords; she’d had a few chances to brush up on her fencing skills while trying to avoid a gristly death since she’d started at the warehouse. Real swords were far more fun.)

The door to the coach’s office was open when they arrived, canister of neutralizer in tow. They stopped, Myka’s back pressed up against the wall. Claudia didn’t have a weapon, it wouldn’t be wise for her to go first. She held up a hand and shook her head at Claudia’s questioning look.

Her gun was in her hand, safety off and bullet in the chamber. Myka turned to see Claudia gulp, and gave her a reassuring smile. She was still so young, so new to all of this.

Myka took a deep breath and stepped around the doorway. The figure was crouched in front of the trophy case, Myka’s eyes narrowed. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were following me around,” she whispered, lowering her gun.

The smirking face of Helena Wells turned to look over her shoulder at Myka. Their eyes met and Myka felt her cheeks flush, just a little. She had _missed_ Helena.

“Or maybe I just wanted to see you?” Helena drawled, getting to her feet. She held her hands up, Myka still had a gun pointed – if at a lowered position - at her.

 _Further destined to meet at gunpoint._

Myka grinned. She had, in moments of girlish reverie, thought about what it would be like to encounter Helena on one of her field assignments. The idea of a secret tryst under Pete’s nose was so very _Romeo and Juliet_ and Myka did love the classics.

Still, Claudia was waiting outside and it seemed somewhat rude to exclude her. Myka knew from the way that Claudia had spoken about Helena when she’d come up in conversation at the warehouse that Claudia did not share Artie’s need to bronze HG Wells as soon as humanly possible. This was tentative, perhaps a fool’s errand.

She turned, opening her mouth to speak, and found herself staring at the red head of Claudia Donovan, wide eyes just obscured beneath a purple streak in her hair. “Myka…” her voice was uncertain, fearful.

Myka tried to smile, but her face was stuck between worried and uncertain. Maybe this was a bad idea.

She let her arm drop to her side and gestured for Claudia to come into the office. She did, hitching the canister of neutralizer further up her shoulder.

Helena’s hands and plunged into her pockets, and she was leaning against the trophy case she’d been rifling through a moment before; smug and casual. Myka wanted to point out that she could have very easily shot her by accident and that it wasn’t a good idea to sneak around areas that the warehouse was investigating as you were sure to get your ass Tesla’d.

“Look who’s here.” Myka said lamely.

Claudia looked from Helena to Myka and back again. “Why aren’t you … I don’t know... pointing your gun at her?” Her voice grew higher in pitch as she reached the end of the sentence, confusion clearly written across her face. “She’s the bad guy.”

“Actually, if I may,” Helena began. Myka inclined her head and Claudia turned her attention to Helena. “I am rather a neutral character in the feud between the warehouse and James MacPherson, I just happened to be the one he chose to wake up. I have no ill will towards the warehouse.”

Claudia snorted disbelievingly and Myka sighed. “Why are you here, Helena?” She regretted phrasing the question like that almost as soon as she’d spoken the words. It wasn’t what she meant, and she hoped that Helena would see that she’d done it for Claudia’s benefit. Myka had a pretty decent idea of why Helena had happened to show up at this particular location, and it had to do with her text about the regents, sent just two days ago.

Helena had come to provide the answers that Myka sought in person – Myka just hoped that the underlying sexual current in the room would continue to smolder, she couldn’t take her eyes off of Helena. She wanted her, and badly.

Nearly three months of next-to-no contact had only made the want more obvious.

Myka’s expectant stare was met with a raised eyebrow. “Are you going to put your gun down?” A smile quirked at the corners of Helena’s lips, just turning upward, slow and predatory. Myka swallowed, she couldn’t look away as Helena added, almost like an afterthought, “As intriguing as such a power game is…”

“Helena.” The gun went back into its holster and Myka ground on Helena’s name in a warning tone, trying to impress upon her that there was a young person in the room who was not entirely sure that Helena wasn’t on the side of pure and unadulterated evil. Claudia would figure it out, but Myka wanted to do it on her own time. You couldn’t force such things.

They shared a silent conversation, both glancing over to Claudia and then back again. Myka gives her a wan smile, trying to say everything that she can’t with an audience, while breaking and entering. Helena just seems amused and saunters over to stand in front of Claudia. From her pocket she produces the coach’s medal, dangling it from her index finger as Claudia’s eyes widen and she fumbles in her pocket for gloves.

Myka frowned. Helena wasn’t an idiot, she would know to wear gloves when handling an artifact… unless…

“You were looking for this, I believe?” Helena said with a bright smile, eyebrows raised as if daring Claudia to say anything.

Claudia opened her mouth, changed her mind and closed it again. She snapped on the neutralizer-treated glove and held out her hand. “I… yes we were,” she said at length.

Helena dropped the medal into Claudia’s outstretched palm and patted Claudia on the cheek. “Can’t have your first official assignment go bad, can you young one?” When she got no response, Helena continued, “Good luck.”

“Thanks… I think.” Claudia said, turning and rummaging in her pocket for a static bag.

Helena crossed to stand next to Myka, invading Myka’s personal space as though she belonged there, settling in for a long stay. Her hand was warm, brushing against Myka’s as their eyes met. Myka flushed and turned away. This wasn’t the time or the place for such _infatuations_ and they had work that they needed to be doing.

She swallowed, turning to tell Claudia to dump that thing in the neutralizer when their heads snapped as one toward the doorway. The coach’s voice could be clearly heard in the hallway, barking in a cell phone.

Myka clenched her fist and turned, coat swirling behind her. How the hell were they going to get out of this one? She didn’t have any of those conveniently placed artifacts that Artie sometimes used to get out of sticky situations. Myka didn’t even think that that was really up to snuff with warehouse policy, but she had promised to never say anything after those artifacts had come in handy on cases just like these.

It figured that she’d get caught breaking and entering with Artie’s public enemy number one on Claudia’s first official field mission as a junior agent.

“Shit…” Myka cursed, turning from Helena to Claudia, “we can’t be found here.”

Helena grinned, leaning in and kissing Myka on the cheek before dancing out of Myka’s reach and towards the door. “You can’t be found here, he hasn’t met me yet.” She winked at Claudia, “I’ll see you later.”

As they snuck out of the coach’s office, Claudia muttered, “She’s good.”

Myka agreed, yes, yes she was.

x

After all was said and done and the case was, as Claudia had put it, ‘sol-ved,’ Myka sat in the dingy motel room that she and Claudia had agreed to share for the evening. The events of the day, of everything that Helena had told her, swirled about in her mind. Helena wanted to come back to work for the warehouse.

It sounded like an amazing idea, Myka would get to see her all the time.

She swallowed, thinking of the catch.

Helena had said that in her search to find what was hidden in plain sight, she’d had to strike a hard bargain with the regents, one she’d never anticipated making. She’d given them an idea of a location of a lost warehouse that she’d spent the great majority of her time before being bronzed tracking down.

“There is something hidden there that I wanted at the time,” Helena had explained as they stood in the middle of a deserted on-campus road used only by maintenance men. Her fingers had brushed up against Myka’s then, her skin warm. “As my body finally settles after being debronzed, I realize that I no longer want it.”

Myka hadn’t known what to make of that, but a van had barreled down the road just then and Helena had used a device of her own invention to pull them up and out of harm’s way.

They worked so well together, and as Myka flew through their air, her arms wrapped tight around Helena, she gave a whoop of surprise that turned into joy. Helena had kissed her while they were coming down and had promised her that she’d find a way to come back to the warehouse.

“I’m glad she was here,” Claudia said, flopping onto the second bed in the room. Her hair was still damp from the shower that Myka had made her take. Helena’s amino acid cure was only as good as they could make it and continued exposure to fluids affected with Godfried’s Spoon would probably send Claudia right back into combustion man mode.

She turned, eyes finding Myka on the edge of the bed, still in work clothes. “She really likes you doesn’t she?”

Myka shrugged. Helena had disappeared again, this time leaving her grappling hook and a promise that Myka could owe her one.

On their way to the hotel, Myka had tried to call Helena, but the other woman’s cell phone was off and she did not have voice mail enabled on the phone… apparently. Myka had raised a questioning eyebrow at this, but had simply hung up.

“If she liked me,” Myka began quietly, staring at the grappling hook on the desk across from her. It gleamed in the half-light of the room, brass and sleek black metal a sharp contrast to the bright pine of the motel’s decor. “I think that she’d stay long enough for me to tell her goodbye.”

Claudia smiled. “I think you’re being courted, Mykes.” Myka turned and saw Claudia raising and eyebrow and shrugging. “She’s just doing it like… a badass Indiana Jones meets Lara Croft meets steampunk.”

“That is a wonderful mental image, thank you.” Myka laughed and Claudia rolled her eyes.

“She is really cool though,” Claudia sighed. “Maybe Artie’s got her all wrong and is just butthurt because she killed MacPherson. Yeah, that could be it.” She turned over onto her side. “Besides, the files did say that she never wanted to be woken up.”

Myka doesn’t say anything, but she agreed. She could tell how close Artie and MacPherson were the minute that he started to talk about the other man and their exploits together. They might have ended badly then, but there was a kindness in his eyes that never quite escaped the hardness of his expression when he spoke of his former partner.

She just hoped that she and Helena would not end up like Artie and MacPherson did – stuck on two opposite sides of a gun.


	9. Moscow - Or, Bargining Chips

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein there is not a lot of Russian spoken and a whole lot of windmills tilted at.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'ed by the lovely Spockette.

They, Myka pointed out the Pete as they wandered through the streets of Moscow, were tilting at windmills. Neither of them had ever been to Russia (at least not Western Russia, Pete had spent some time in Eastern Russia while in the Marines and stationed in Japan) and neither of them spoke the language. Pete knew a few Cyrillic letters and Myka was pretty quick with languages to begin with, but still, nothing. They had no idea where they were going and it was a losing battle to try and get Claudia on the Farnsworth with Google Translate as their pronunciation was so horrible that they could barely communicate.

Luckily, the concierge at the hotel they were staying at spoke French, which Myka did as well, and they were at least able to communicate with one person here.

Myka’s hands were plunged deep into her pockets to combat the late October chill that filled this northern country. Her fingers ran over the cool plastic of her cell phone and the warm, faded brass metal of a button she’d found in there after having to walk through the airport security metal detector four times earlier that day. She knew how it had gotten there, she’d seen the far-off look on Helena’s face as Myka had excused herself from the funeral for a man that she barely knew but who had certainly known of her.

Supervisory Agent Dickinson had been a close friend of Pete’s when he had been stationed in DC. Myka had met him briefly not long after Sam’s funeral and he had attempted to convince her to go to work in Washington. She’d considered his offer pretty seriously at the time, and had spoken with him about her other options. It had been Dickinson who had suggested that maybe an extended leave of absence until she got herself sorted out would be for the best for her.

Needless to say, news of his mysterious death had shaken her deeply. The fact that it was somehow connected to Artie, his past, and the Cold War made the subject matter all the more intriguing. And then Helena had tracked her down at the funeral.

She had told Myka of how she’d found a regent and had pleaded her case well. They drove a hard bargain, she said – repeating what she’d earlier asserted in California. They were checking the information that she’d provided and they would get back to her regarding reinstatement. Myka knew that it was only a matter of time then.

This had prompted a flurry of activity on Myka’s part. She had spent the better part of last week writing a recommendation that she addressed to Benedict Valda. She was sure that he would put it into the correct hands, because, while obviously a hard-ass, he was not the highest rung on the regent food chain. The recommendation was simple and to the point, she presented the Helena that she had met in the bookstore, completely and utterly alone. She explained how Helena had, in her experience, never done anything to directly hinder the warehouse besides breaking into the Escher Vault, but even doing that was only to collect her personal affects.

Even then, Myka noted in her report, she had left behind her compact and had taken only a ring that was a family heirloom and the locket containing her daughter’s picture.

These were not the marks of a madwoman hell-bent on destroying the world, Myka argued. She thought that if Helena could be brought back into the fold of the warehouse that she could finally, thanks to modern medicine and psychology, be given the chance to heal after the untimely death of her daughter. The warehouse, Myka concluded, owed her that much.

She didn’t mention the report to Helena, no, it had to be an unknown in this whole thing. Instead she’d pulled the smaller woman behind a tree and they’d kissed amidst the quiet and then sudden loudness of the four-man salute and the bagpipes to the tune of _Amazing Grace._

And now they were in Moscow, tilting at windmills.

Joy.

“Okay, we’ve tracked down, what is it… five Weissman-es-itzes so far and no Artie,” Pete flipped open the notebook that he kept in his pocket – reporters, long and skinny and covered in terrible handwriting. Myka frowned, pursed her lips and contemplated the map she’d purchased from a bodega across the street from where they were staying. “The next one is a music instructor of some sort,” he rattled off an address and Myka squinted at the Roman alphabet street names, trying to find something that sounded even remotely like that address.

She felt unsettled, like there were eyes on her. This could be the fact that she looked so stereotypically like a tourist that it was almost painful – but no, Myka knew this feeling well. This was the feeling of being stalked, of being _prey._ She knew only one person who would be following them in a place like this – other than Artie, but he clearly had other things on his mind.

“Pete,” She said, pausing in the middle of a wide expanse of sidewalk. There was some Socialist Propaganda mural on the wall next to them with some rather epic graffiti’ed mustaches on the washed out faces of the proletariat, she paused to admire them for a moment, trying to act casual. They were rather impressive mustaches, after all.

The notebook snapped closed and Pete seemed to contemplating the chilly late-October air for a moment before he muttered, “I got a bad feeling.”

Myka nodded, she’d felt it too. Not as acutely as Pete did, but she knew the sensation that was gathering on the small of her back, and she knew it wasn’t good. “I think we’re being followed,” she said in an undertone. She couldn’t see anyone on the street, but she was no fool. She glanced around. “You go that way, I’ll go this way, we’ll meet the next block over and see if anyone follows us.”

Pete nodded, “You don’t think it’s Artie?”

She shook her head. “No, he’d just come up and yell at us for following him.”

“It is known,” Pete agreed sagely. Myka rolled her eyes at him and turned up the collar on her jacket. _Nerd._

Myka cut across the road, intent of getting as far away from Pete as possible, to see what would happen. If she was right about this, and her instincts usually did not lie to her, the stalker would make a move on either herself or on Pete, and then they’d finally have something to go on.

She _wanted_ it to be Helena, she’d recognized the button, but not the make of it when she’d found it in her purse. It was dated, Victorian. Obviously an older piece from the looks of the hand crafted bronze and copper that formed its body. But Myka was not sure. It could not be her, but rather the man who was after Artie. They’d already dealt with him once and Charles II’s goddamn croquet balls that seemed to react to volatile emotions more than anything else.

 _Damnit,_ Myka thought violently as she rounded the corner to the next street over. They didn’t have time for this. Ivan could possibly already have Artie and they had no real way of tracking him. She was so worried, Artie wasn’t thinking clearly and there was no way to tell what he might do.

She sighed, hands again plunging deep into her pockets again. There was a chilly bite to the air here that had yet to settle back at the Warehouse. Myka knew it was coming, she could smell it in the air late at night when she couldn’t sleep – memories chasing Morpheus away. Leena had found her out on the back porch, late at night, staring off into space a few times. There hadn’t been much conversation then, just the quiet companionship that Myka so desperately craved.

She liked Leena, but it wasn’t the same.

Leena had told her that all would become clear in time, and Myka had believed her. Leena had an intrinsic knowledge of these things that Myka had come to greatly respect. It was strange; Myka had never put much stock in having _feelings_ before coming to work for the Warehouse. Pete had them, Leena had them. In her most private thoughts, Myka wondered if Helena had them, because she seemed to have an almost intrinsic ability to seek out and find artifacts.

She looked up, shivering, trying to not think of Helena. They’d seen her on the security footage going into Dickinson’s office, and Helena had explained that away so smoothly. Myka was so, so afraid that Helena was somehow working with this Ivan character. To what end, she could not fathom, and Myka was so desperate to trust in Helena that she pushed the worry out of her mind almost as soon as it drifted across her consciousness.

There was no way that that could be true.

Across the street, Pete was stopped, hands half-way into his jacket pocket. Myka took a step forward, and then another, hurriedly making her way towards him – afraid to draw attention to herself. They were being as careful as they could so as not to cause an international incident. Russian-American relations had vastly improved since Myka’s childhood and early school years, but she wasn’t exactly sure how well the Russian government would take to two US Secret Service agents accosting one of the locals with _guns_ that happened to shoot electricity.

“Pete,” she hissed, drawing up and forcing his arm down. He couldn’t draw the Tesla, not in public in the middle of a busy street. He should know better. The manual clearly stated several instances where agents of the warehouse had caused international incidents and how this was A Very Bad Thing, Pete needed to read it, that much was obvious. “What are you _thinking?_ ”

There was an amused chuckle, and Myka swallowed. Her fingers released Pete’s arm and she looked up to see Helena Wells, smiling at her with those expressive brown eyes. Myka flushed as Helena said, “I do believe, darling, that the problem is rather that he is _not._ ”

Well, Myka could give them both that. Pete so rarely _thought_ as it was.

“How did you find us?” Pete asked and Myka’s hand flew to her pocket. Her fingers closed around the warm brass of the button she’d found there earlier and she pulled it out.

Helena held out her hand and Myka set the button in it. Her fingers brushed against Helena’s palm, lingering for longer than was absolutely necessary. “I found that in my pocket going through security in DC.”

“I had assumed that you would discover it sometime during your travels,” Helena replied, closing her hand into a fist and giving Myka that look that made Myka weak at her knees. She wished that Pete wasn’t there, so that she could pull Helena down a side street and kiss her.

Actually, given how Russia’s general public felt about queer individuals, Myka was rather glad that he was there.

“I figured that you’d assume that,” Myka retorted with a winning smile.

Pete rolled his eyes and sighed loudly, pulling them out of their world together and back into the very real and dire situation on hand. “Oh alright.” Pete glanced from Myka’s excited grin at Helena and then back to the woman herself. He reached forward and plucked the button-shaped tracking device out of Helena’s open palm. He inspected it for a moment before raising an incredulous eyebrow at Helena. “You built that?” he glanced at it for another moment before handing it back to Helena. “What is it?”

Helena flipped the device up into the air and caught it, hand clenching into a fist so quickly that Myka wasn’t even sure it had moved. She stared at in her palm for a moment before producing a small square device covered in interlocking brass wires and had a gauge on the surface of it. It was ticking, _loudly._ Myka leaned forward curiously and Helena smiled at her. “An electromagnet attached to a radar device and a short range radio – which is _aces_ , let me tell you.” She brushed her hair out of her eyes and turned to smile at Pete. “I was so happy when I read that it had finally been invented.”

Myka wondered if Helena was about to announce that she’d postulated that theory in something ridiculous like 1890, but Helena left it at that very astute comment.

Pete opened and closed his mouth a few times. Myka could tell that this was going to take a while for him to process. Not everyone could understand such brilliance. “But you built that?”

Helena gave Pete a hard look and tucked the receiver and the button into her jacket pocket. “I am an artificer, Agent Lattimer, it is what I do.” Her face turned more serious then. “I do believe that your Agent Nielsen is in a bit of trouble, however.”

It was true, Artie was probably not under threat from Helena and Myka shared a long look with Pete that informed him in no uncertain terms that she did not think that Helena was the one behind this. He glanced at the receiver in Helena’s hands. “Can you adjust that to any frequency?”

“What are you thinking?” Myka asked, but Pete was already wrestling the Farnsworth out of his pocket. He flipped it open and fiddled with the dial until he had the correct frequency for Claudia. Myka glanced over to see Helena eyeing the device with some interest (they had come to the warehouse after her time, Myka recalled) and raised a curious eyebrow.

“Yes, it can,” Helena said, fiddling with the dial. “I’d have to know what to tune into though. And I will have to recalibrate the hertz.”

 _Oh,_ Myka realized what Pete was thinking. Claudia one night after Artie had gone to bed had taken his glasses and wired them to emit a frequency that could be tuned into with the average cellphone like a tracking device. It was supposed to help him locate them when he ah… _misplaced_ them, but really it just served as a great way of knowing when Artie was about to sneak up behind out and scare the shit out of you when you were working at his computer.

Myka had experienced that the hard way.

Claudia seemed more than willing to provide the frequency, despite the early hour of the morning there, but Pete did not longer on the call with her – he kept glancing over to Helena, who had pulled a screwdriver out of her pocket and was carefully removing the back of her tracking device.

“What are you doing?” Pete asked as she knelt down and used her knees as a work bench, adjusting wires here and there, and jamming the screwdriver quite hard at the large black surface of what had to be the magnet.

“Adjustments,” Helena muttered, fiddling with the wires some more.

Myka had never seen her work, and Helena had only spoke of her work in a brief moment of coveting that wrestling coach in California’s post-it notes. It was a beautiful thing, to watch Helena’s nimble fingers play across the surface of a device she’d built herself. Almost a lover’s caress, but Myka had felt that and Helena was far more purposeful in these actions.

 _Stop thinking about it,_ Myka thought violently. This was not the time, no matter how appealing it might be. This was not the time or the place.

“Pete,” Myka said when the device in Helena’s hand started to beep again, shrilly this time as Helena jostled it around, reattaching the cover to the back with a few quick turns of her wrist.

This was good, this was a lead and far better than they had had before.

“Come,” Helena said, standing and turning in a slow circle until she found the direction that the beeping was the strongest. “We must procure a cab.”

x

“You either come with us willingly or not at all.” Artie said, hands shaking as Helena handed him her revolver. He emptied the chamber quickly, pocketing the bullets before tossing it aside, ignoring Helena’s sharp intake of breath. Myka wondered if the gun was of personal significance to her and bent to pick it up as it skittered past her feet. “This is your one chance – my one act of benevolence that you probably do not deserve.”

Myka watched as Helena nodded resolutely. “I will return with you, no trickery or foolishness.”

They all trooped back to hotel that Pete and Myka had stayed in the night before. It was going to take time to book four tickets out of the country, especially considering that Helena’s legal documentation was good, but not that good. Artie asked her, once they’d all crammed themselves into a cab and Myka (with Artie’s help) had given the hotel’s address to the driver, how she’d managed to fly out of the country.

Helena smiled up at him the front seat, crammed in the middle between Pete and Myka in an already too small car, and replied, “I have my ways.”

Myka wondered what _that_ could possibly mean, but when Artie’s eyes grew wide and Helena nodded primly, she decided that she did not want to know. Her mind was filled with ideas of Doctor Who style memory-altering paper that let people see credentials or something, not that she was into that sort of thing.

At the hotel, Artie announced that he was bunking with Pete as Pete’s room had a couch with Pete’s name on it, and that Myka could either get Helena a room or sleep with her. Pete raised his eyebrows at Myka and mimed a wolf whistle as he tossed Artie his room keys but thankfully kept his mouth shut. Myka mouthed ‘thank you’ at him as they mounted the stairs to climb up to their room. She wasn’t dealing with this, not now.

Her room was barely touched. She’d been up half the night researching everything she could about the artifacts that they could possibly be encountering, talking with Claudia, nine hours behind, through much of the night. Housekeeping had not come in to make the bed, so the sheets were still a tangled mess as Myka lay in fitful sleep for the precious few hours she’d managed to claim the night before. She hated traveling across timezones, especially this many.

“Myka,” Helena’s voice was quiet as Myka turned the lock and slid the bolt into place. She exhaled quietly, trying to push the image of Helena, blue with cold and shaking with the effort that it took to hold a gun.

She had been so scared that Helena would die in that moment, freeze to death like the feeling of so many trapped by that artifact before had.

“Mn?” Myka said, pulling off her dirty coat and draping it over a hanger in the hotel’s small closet.

Helena’s hands were on her, pulling their bodies together. Myka yelped as she felt Helena’s smaller form press up against her back, cold still clinging to her coat and skin. She hadn’t been expecting the contact, the desperate grasp of body against body as Helena shook against her.

“I was so cold,” Helena whispered, her voice muffled by Myka’s shoulder. “So terribly cold.”

She found her voice then, hands trailing down to rest on Helena’s, clenched around her stomach as they were. “We should warm you up then,” Myka’s voice was breathy, but she managed to keep it even. She didn’t know what she was doing, if this was even the _right_ thing to be doing.

 _Impulsive, impatient,_ Sam’s voice rang out in her head and she shoved him away and out of her consciousness. He had no place with her right now.

Helena’s breath was warm against the coarse wool of her sweater; the dampness of it lingered as Myka stepped away from Helena and inclined her head towards the embarrassingly unmade bed.

“Why Agent Bering…” Helena raised an almost scandalized eyebrow and began to unbutton her coat. She set it on top of Myka’s and tucked her hands into her pants pockets. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say that you were trying to seduce me.”

Myka gave her a shy half smile and leaned forward, fingers brushing against Helena’s before she turned and walked over to the bed, sitting on the edge. She couldn’t look up, full of the awkward that comes from a direct come-on. She didn’t know what she was thinking, doing such things wasn’t _her_. She was the quiet one, the one who watched from afar and never made her move.

She couldn’t watch as Helena slowly made her way over there. She had a swagger about her that was almost as criminal as it was arousing.

“What are you doing?” The question tumbled from Myka’s lips as Helena bent down, their noses almost touching.

“I believe the phrase is ‘turning the tables?’” Helena raised an eyebrow and Myka grinned up at her. The kiss that followed was anything but the tentative pecks than they’d been sharing as of late. It was full of a hunger born of emotions that had been riding just beneath the surface of Myka’s careful façade of calm all day.

Helena had almost _died_ trying to save Artie, to save them all really.

Her hands tangled in long black hair, pulling Helena down on top of her across the bed, their bodies pressing against every inch of each other. Myka couldn’t stop – not tonight, not even if Pete called. Or Mrs. F. Or even Artie.

“I think I’m okay with that,” Myka said when their lips parted ever so briefly, her breath heavy.

She was greeted with a smile and Helena’s still chilly hands tracing faint patterns on her stomach, pushing up her sweater. They struggled with it for a minute, forcing it up and over Myka’s head and onto the floor in short order with four pairs of hands hurriedly trying to divest it from Myka’s body. Goosebumps rose across her chest as Helena stared down at her, fingers poised at the edge of what could be considered obscene.

There was a faint smile on Helena’s lips as she pushed past the final barrier, as far as they’d been able to go before. “I have longed for this moment,” she muttered, hands reaching under Myka, pulling her up, and struggling with the clasp on her bra. “And I must say that these are a far cry better than corsets.”

 _Oh god,_ Myka thought, recalling how god awful her experiences with those 19th century torture devices had been in high school and college.

Cool palms splayed across her breasts, her bra falling forgotten onto the floor. Myka inhaled sharply, her hands pulling at Helena’s shirt. It didn’t seem fair, and when Helena pushed her back down Myka didn’t put up too much of a fight.

She was lost in the sensation of lips on her own, hands on her body. It had been a long time since she’d had a lover – since she’d even wanted to have one. Helena was everything that she could possibly have wanted, skilled fingers and tongue possessing every inch of her.

She couldn’t deny it any more. She was too far gone as it was. Completely and utterly in love with Helena Wells, and probably had been from the start.

Helena’s lips claimed Myka’s gently, like a lover just returning after a long absence. First just lips, chaste and loving, and then the barest hint of tongue and teeth on Myka’s lower lip, Myka’s mouth opened and Helena’s tongue slipped in. It was a dance, Myka’s fingers tangling in the sheets, in Helena’s hair; anywhere she could put them where they could linger.

She couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. Helena’s head drifted lower, kissing Myka’s neck, her breasts, the pale expanse of her stomach.

Her hands closed around the pillow and her eyes fluttered shut. Helena’s tongue was hot and heavenly on her, touching, claiming. When Myka was truly honest with herself, that tongue could _own_ her and she would be totally okay with that particular state of being. Her eyes shot open, her back arched into Helena’s hands, and Myka could see the yellow glow of the street light outside. It had started to snow.

This had come unexpectedly. She had not anticipated this dance, this performance in a golden glow, Helena’s skin almost luminescing against the pale white of the bed sheets as her head dipped still lower. It had been a long time since Myka had had a lover, and longer still since one had made her feel this way.

Fingers curled around her hips, holding her in place as Helena kissed her thigh reverently, “You are so painfully beautiful – you make me forget myself.” Her voice was but a whisper, but as Myka’s hands tangled in Helena’s hair, all she could hear were those words, over and over again in her head. She didn’t understand and she so desperately wanted to.

Helena Wells was an enigma, a mystery that even Myka’s big brain and stupid eidetic memory could not puzzle out.

“I think I’m falling in love with you,” Myka replied, forgetting herself and the restraint she’d sworn to herself that she’d show after Sam. She could not stay angry at herself for long as Helena’s tongue slid, hot and wet inside her and all coherent thought was gone from her brain.

There was just this moment, bathed in the yellow glow of the streetlight outside, snow falling gently against the window. It was a silent surrender, a sacrifice to the gods of ages long past – of the exquisite pain of a lover well skilled. Myka’s lips fell open in supplication, her hands thrashing, trying to grab onto something solid to keep her anchored.

The hands on her hips were firm, and the pace that Helena set was steady. Myka rode the crest of her climax for what seemed like forever, her breath coming in ragged bursts.

When it was over, and Helena had crawled up to lie next to her – hands warm and lips smeared with Myka – they turned into each other. Myka’s hand slipped downwards, her fingers curling up and into Helena. There was a moment of readjustment, Myka shifting to be more fully on top of Helena and Helena said very earnestly, “I have already fallen quite hard for you.”


	10. Reinstated - Or, Time Travel and Machine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Claudia Donovan shares her opinion on, well, everything in the story thus far.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'ed by the lovely Spockette.

Claudia Donovan was unused to the newest member of the team. She supposed that that was all fine and dandy, because the newest member of the team had broken into the warehouse – mad props for that and all – killed a bad guy and had then proceeded to evade capture for close to four months. Oh, and she was apparently in love with Myka.

 _That,_ however, had not come as a surprise at all to Claudia. Myka had obviously been smitten from the first time she’d met HG Wells, and Claudia had seen how their locking lips in the library at Myka’s old job had affected Myka for _weeks_ afterwards.

She didn’t get it, how could Myka find amazing badass love when the boy that Claudia liked turned out to be on the run from the mob? It wasn’t fracking fair and she hated it.

Regardless, Claudia was still a little jumpy around the smiling and altogether too _British_ form of Helena Wells.

They’d come back from Moscow to find Mrs. F and Mr. Kosan waiting for them, a badge and passport for Helena in hand. Claudia had been the one to find them sitting on the couch that was jammed in the far corner of the office, drinking tea that Mrs. F had apparently brought with her. Claudia just assumed she kept a full tea service under her beehive or something, Artie certainly didn’t possess china that good.

“Oh good,” She had said, “Ms. Donovan, would you mind checking these in the usual databases?” She’d handed over HG’s new passport and that had been how Claudia had found out that the regents had apparently decided that HG was back on the side of good. Claudia had had dark visions of Darth Vader in the final moments of _Return to the Jedi_ as she checked the new identity against the usual methods that she’d devised over the years to sniff out such things.

The look on Myka’s face when they’d told them all, gathered with about fifteen new artifacts to catalogue in tow had been nothing short of brilliant and Claudia was genuinely happy for them both. They had that glow about them, Claudia hoped it would last.

 _Artie,_ however, had been less than pleased. There had been shouting and throwing things and Myka offering Claudia a lift back to Leena’s until captain grouchy-pants had calmed down enough to actually see this is a good thing.

Leena had taken one look at HG and asked if she had needed a workshop or a bedroom, Claudia had inwardly squeed and had then instantly pretended that she did not care in the slightest because she was an adult and adults did not do such undignified things. Her fingernails had been _fascinating_ as HG and Myka exchanged awkward glances back and forth before HG had said that either way she would love a place of her own as she didn’t have anywhere else to go at present.

Claudia felt that it was important to note that HG had yet to actually sleep in her room.

God, she was just so _British._

Anyway, HG made Claudia jumpy, which made her hands shake which in turn made very precise technical calibrations rather challenging. She supposed that she should be the bigger (wo)man, so one morning, after breaking yet _another_ glass after coming across HG, Claudia sat down across from her at Leena’s dining room table and made nice.

“I heard you made a tracking device out of magnets and buttons,” She said with a raised eyebrow. “That is…” And Claudia was not at all ashamed to admit it, “really amazingly awesome.”

HG sipped her tea and gave Claudia that small and closed off smile that always put Claudia a little on edge. She wondered if it was a 1800s thing. “I hear that you are quite the inventor yourself, Miss Donovan.”

She flushed, embarrassed that she totally had a little bit of a crush on HG Wells.

Claudia opened her mouth to reply, but Artie barged into the room, full of bustle and bravado and demanded to know where everyone was. Something was up at the warehouse, a whole bunch of stuff had arrived from London for HG to sort out, oh, and they had _inventory._

Groan.

Needless to say, when Rebecca St. Clair had also barged into the dining room and demanded karmic retribution from some artifact-wielding dude from the sixties who’d killed some chicks before fleeing to St. Louis – Claudia jumped at the challenge.

Anything was better than inventory, after all.

Myka drove them all over to the warehouse, Claudia was sandwiched in the backseat between Pete and HG, who were exchanging glances and apparently having a silent conversation over her head. Claudia wriggled, elbowed Pete in the stomach and pulled her phone out of her back pocket. She had been so busy making nice that she’d forgotten to go and at least pretend to have political efficacy and skim the headlines of the _New York Times._ She fiddled, HG read over her shoulder unapologetically, and Rebecca filed them in on this guy who was apparently her (and Jack’s) last great nemesis from back when she was an agent.

And honestly, dude sounded evil as hell. Claudia was impressed that a nice old lady like Rebecca had such an evil guy as her final foe.

The market was in the toilet, Obama’s health care law was going nowhere, there was some guy dead in the Hudson, and apparently the US was again debating abolishing the penny.

A terrible news day, Claudia turned off her phone in disgust.

“How is that you are reading the newspaper on your cellular telephone,” HG wanted to know, and so Claudia began to explain the Internet, computers and a lot of technical stuff that HG actually seemed to follow. Pete’s eyes glazed over as soon as she started talking about wireless frequencies and how they could be comparable to well, she had wracked her brain for something even remotely steampunk to compare them to and had come up with nothing.

HG explained as Myka stopped just outside the rusted-out gate that cordoned off the warehouse’s property and got out of the car to open it that she’d read a good bit of Asimov while on the run, Orwell as well. Claudia might have been tickled pink when HG added that she’d read Hawking as well, just a little. It was so nice; HG understood a lot of the conventions despite her lack of hands on experience.

Claudia thought that that was wicked cool and had to wrestle with her mind and the little Artie-sounding voice in the back of her head that was screaming DO NOT TRUST ANYTHING OUT OF THE BRONZE SECTOR at her. Myka seemed to like HG well enough, well, maybe more than _like._ Claudia had never seen anything so completely and utterly adorable in all her life.

Except for that corgi puppy video from last week. Yup, that was def cuter.

She nudged Pete, who raised an eyebrow at her before following her gaze to the meaningful look HG and Myka were sharing in the rearview mirror. Pete smirked, and mouthed ‘so boning’ at Claudia who rolled her eyes and mouthed ‘duh’ and then Myka demanded to know what was so goddamn funny, the car hit a pot hole and they all lurched forward into each other and pulled up in front of the warehouse.

Yeah Claudia had dibs on never explaining that to Myka.

HG had concluded that someone had used her time machine (amazing, Claudia was in love) in order to go back in time and mess with Rebecca’s (and probably Jack’s) memories. Artie had stormed off to go and check on some documents relating to the guy and naturally, they were left to their own devices. _And_ under explicit instructions to not use HG’s ‘infernal contraption’ under _any_ circumstances.

Shenanigans had to be had.

Artie, Claudia didn’t really understand it, walked right into these things. Every. Single. Time.

She handed HG a crowbar and they headed down to the receiving dock, where the crates from London had been delivered the night before. There was a look of such joy on HG’s face to find her things waiting for her that Claudia had to hang back a minute, pulling on Myka’s arm. “Nothing in there is bad, is it?” she asked.

Myka smiled, but it was closed-off and distant, like she knew something but did not want to say anything. “The only person those things in there could hurt, I think, is Helena.”

Oooookay. Rather cryptic, not exactly the answer that Claudia was looking for, but still a reasonable one.

They agreed, that since Jack apparently also had had no memory of the events that transpired during that same twenty two hours and nineteen minutes, that both Pete and Myka would use the machine. It seemed as though they’d already done it, honestly, as there was a package sitting on Artie’s desk addressed in Pete’s handwriting with a postmark dating back to 1961. She didn’t even _want_ to know how lost that had gotten in the mail.

Upon closer inspection, they realized that yes, Pete and Myka had gone into the past – the whole thing was really _Mad Men_ and god, Rebecca’s hair had been _epic_ back in the day. The package had contained an old-fashioned home video, recorded at some point during their trip back there.

Rebecca kept her distance as they reassembled HG’s time machine. Claudia had noticed her giving HG strange looks since she’d arrived, but hadn’t mentioned it to the others – they weren’t even sure if this was going to work.

HG attached the final wire and Pete suddenly remembered that time is malleable, impossible according to Artie and that they could potentially _really_ fuck this up if they did something wrong. “Would you… change the past just by going back?”

“It is a mental transport, and the events have already happened,” HG explained, glancing downwards, sadly, at the headpiece in her hands. “It seems that the ink in which our lives are written is indelible.” She bent, placed the device on Myka’s head, and whispered something so low that Claudia could not hear before stepping back and flipping the machine on. “Good luck,” she added and Pete gave her a cheerful salute as they started to spin.

Pete and Myka’s excellent adventure, commence.

As the machine quieted and the countdown began, HG sighed loudly and flipped through some of the papers that they’d found in the crate with the time machine. Rebecca came to stand next to her, peering at the papers as well.

“You were in the bronze sector,” Rebecca said quietly. “I remember seeing you there.”

HG didn’t say anything and Claudia didn’t think it was her place to interfere.

“How did you get out?” Rebecca persisted.

Claudia winced, Rebecca should probably drop it while she was ahead.

“Not by my own volition, I assure you,” HG retorted shortly, she brushed past Rebecca and picked up Pete’s wrist – checking his pulse against her pocket watch. “Now, if you will excuse me, this is a rather delicate process and I’ve only ever done it once before and that was not using electricity as a power source. I must monitor them both closely to watch for any suspect changes.”

Claudia had to ask, she couldn’t help herself. “What did you use before?”

“Beethoven’s Metronome,” HG said distractedly. When Claudia looked utterly _horrified_ at the idea of using such a violently unstable artifact (Beethoven had apparently managed to give the metronome the power to fill the user with the rage that he felt upon losing his hearing and it made you go super kooky, not to mention deaf. And was now in the Dark Vault) to power such a device, HG added. “I was rather like you, back in Warehouse 12.”

“I’m sure your Artie appreciated that.” Claudia muttered. Really. Using artifacts to power inventions.

Well, she was guilty of that herself, but she’d never tried to build a fracking _time machine._

“I can assure you that he did not,” HG flipped her clipboard over and began to scribble something with a pen she had been rather excited to find still tucked in with the time machine’s plans. She frowned for a moment, before checking her watch and glancing over to Claudia. “He was rather unamused by the whole affair, which I came to realize was probably because of what I did afterwards…”

“Mn?” Claudia said, leaning backwards against one of the crates that dotted the receiving bay where they’d set up the time machine.

HG looked away, eyes downcast and Claudia wondered if she’d said the wrong thing. Rebecca cleared her throat and Claudia glanced over at her – but HG was talking again and Claudia couldn’t help but pay rapt attention to what HG had to say. “Let us just say that I was in a great deal of emotional pain and I did not act in a manner becoming of a warehouse agent, a lady, or even a citizen of the empire.” HG sighed, shoulders rising up and down as her gaze fell back to Claudia. “And Christina was still dead.”

“Christina?” Claudia asked, wondering if this was a lover from HG’s past, if Myka knew about this girl, and if HG was cheating on Myka. Claudia would kill her if she tried anything ridiculous like that. If Pete didn’t get to HG first.

Rebecca shifted and Claudia moved forward, her hand reaching out, tentatively touching HG’s shoulder as Rebecca placed a consoling hand on the small of HG’s back. There were no tears, but Claudia could tell that they could come at any minute.

It felt strange, touching HG. The only one of them that really touched her was Myka, and that was in the way that a lover would touch her. No one was casually friendly, joking around, play fighting; they were all so wary and sometimes touch was all you needed. Claudia remembered what that felt like, and she leaned in closer, eyes meeting Rebecca’s over the top of HG’s head. They were shining as well. “My daughter – she was killed, that was why I built the time machine, to see if I could go back and save her. They said that the maid that was with her used a style of martial arts that I was partial to and that she’d tried to fight off her attackers – there were too many though. I knew that I must have done it, I became obsessed, trying to figure out what I had done to transport my consciousness back in time. Eventually I found my answer…” HG shuddered. “And it did not end well for anyone involved.”

Rebecca’s hand was clenched into a fist at her side. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

She added her own agreement, her voice a quiet murmur over the hum of the time machine. “I’m sorry – I can’t imagine losing someone like that, and then having to see it again. The pain must be unbearable.”

HG’s eyes were sharp, and her voice turned ice cold. A feeling of dread settled into the pit of Claudia’s stomach and she resolved very firmly right then and there to _never_ get on HG’s bad side. “No, Miss Donovan, unbearable pain was what the men who killed Christina experienced upon my return to what was then my present.”

Claudia had seen that in the file. There had been photographs that Artie had told her to destroy of the men that HG had killed, it looked like something out of _The Silence of the Lambs,_ gore everywhere and very little left of the men to identify. There were notes saying that no charges were pressed, and that HG had been forgiven for her actions. No notes were made about the artifact that HG had used, but it had obviously been a bad one.

“Oh.” Rebecca voiced the question that was at the forefront of Claudia’s mind. She didn’t think it was her place to ask, and she didn’t want to be the one to put HG in the awkward position of having to explain her motivations “Was that-?”

“I requested it, so not entirely.” HG replied curtly. Conversation over.

The lights flickered and Claudia sprang into action. How the fuck could this thing use so goddamn much power? She moved over to the computer console that she’d installed near the receiving bay (to check in inventory) and hissed loudly as the Ethernet cord had melted, entirely. This was so not good. Especially since Claudia had dipped the damn thing in rubberized neutralizer goo less than three weeks ago.

Fuuuuuuuuuck.

“HG we’ve got a problem,” She called over her shoulder, Rebecca looking worriedly from HG’s frantic adjustments to Pete and Myka, their faces blissfully unaware of their impending doom.

“I am aware, Miss Donovan,” HG said shortly. She’d pried open the back of her time machine and was looking at a mass of burn out wires. “Do you have any uncoated copper wiring?”

Claudia collected the stuff, so yes. She shouted that she did and took off towards the storage closet in Beta Sector. Hopefully the warehouse grid could hang on until she got back.

Her feet hit the concrete floor of the warehouse in rapid succession, doomsday scenarios filling her minds and how dead she was going to be when Artie came back and found out that they’d blown up the warehouse’s power grid. He’d probably shoot HG, and Claudia would be filleted within an inch of her life. He’d let Rebecca live, that bastard.

Her tools were as she left them, a disassembled mass in a leather satchel that she throws four ten pound spools of wire in, grabs the clippers and a tub of neutralizer goo as well. She’s of half a mind to go and get Beethoven’s fucking metronome out of the Dark Vault. Anything to save Pete and Myka – to save her family.

She wanted HG to be a part of her family, she realized as she turned on her heel and dashed back towards the receiving bay. HG was smart, smarter than she let on and a hell of a lot smarter with technology than Artie gave her credit for. HG knew _things_ , about machines, about the ways things work without her having to use small words to explain them. Claudia like that about her, liked that she could actually have a conversation about radio hertz and the damaging effects of FM radio waves with someone and not have to be looked at as though she had three heads.

“I got some neutralizer too!” she shouted as she rounded the corner, bag swinging behind her (shit was heavy).

Artie had a gun pointed at HG’s head. Artie was apparently back.

Shitterfucker.

The color drained from Claudia’s face – red hair with a hint of blue obscured her vision as she stepped forward, hands clenching into angry fists. “What are you doing?” she demanded.

“Averting a catastrophe.” Artie retorted, jabbing his gun into HG’s head.

HG winced and pulled her head away. Her face was pulled into an angry scowl, “As I have said before – it is not a catastrophe yet, but it _will be_ if you do not let me work.”

Claudia had to agree with HG, but she could see the angry set in Artie’s face. They probably should’ve run this by him before just going ahead and doing it. “Artie, seriously, this already happened,” she tried.

“You,” Artie began, turning to glare at her, “Do not know that. Nothing about this is natural, time travel doesn’t exist!”

She felt compelled, oh yes she did, to point out that anything was possible and closed minds were the poison that killed agents. But she knew better than to meddle in the affairs of dragons; she probably tasted good with ketchup.

“Arthur, please,” Rebecca. Claudia frowned, where the hell had she been when Artie had pulled a gun on HG? Why had she let it happen? That was her, in the past, that was about to potentially get killed if they did not get Pete and Myka out of there in less than three hours. She bit her lip, trying not to retort angrily. She was the bigger man. “Let Helena figure out what is wrong so that we can bring them back.”

“You should not mess with the past,” Artie grumbled.

HG gave a theatrical sigh and reached up, grabbing Artie’s gun out of his surprised figures and throwing it away. Claudia could hear it clatter to rest on top of a large pile of crates. She flashed HG a thumbs up. “Now,” She said, dusting off her hands. “I have absolutely zero intention of doing anything other than to attempt to repair this device so as to pull Myka and Pete out of the past. I have a very limited time to do so and _guns_ are a deterrent that I do not find necessary at the moment. I understand what is at risk .”

 _Way to go,_ Claudia thought, pulling the bag off her shoulder and setting it up on one of the overturned crates that HG had been using as a workbench. Artie opened and closed his mouth several times but eventually glanced over to where HG had thrown his gun. “You are going to go get that when all this is over with,” he muttered.

“With pleasure,” HG retorted icily. Claudia surmised that HG was the most terrifying individual aside from Mrs. F that she had ever met in that moment. Chick was cold man, cold. HG turned to Claudia, “Now then, what have you brought me.”

They all gathered around Claudia’s toolkit. Rebecca proved startlingly insightful when it came to jerry-rigging old wiring with new hardware and Artie actually acted mildly impressed when he saw the inner workings of the time machine. They managed to repair it with mere minutes to spare, and Claudia collapsed on the floor next to Rebecca, who’s breathing was erratic and her hand was clutched against her chest.

“You okay?” Claudia asked quietly as HG and Artie argued about the safety of powering up the updated hardware with Pete and Myka still attached. Claudia didn’t think that they had much of a choice in the matter, but Artie was always safety-oriented and that was a good thing, most of the time.

Rebecca shook her head. “I have not been okay in a long time,” she said quietly. Her hands shook and she produced a pill bottle. “I don’t know how much longer I can stay alive.”

Claudia took the bottle from her and opened it. She shook out a pill, tiny and white, and handed it to Rebecca, along with a bottle of somewhat-questionable water that she’d found in her toolkit. Rebecca swallowed the pill and winced. “Stage four breast cancer is no picnic.”

Oh.

Artie was shouting something and HG had pulled the lever to turn the machine back on just as the clock wound down to zero. The chairs started to spin again, and then everything stopped. Panic ensued and Rebecca suggested that they smack the machine upside the head. Claudia always knew that she’d liked her.

Several good smacks later, and the time machine spluttered back to life – Pete and Myka gasped in unison and HG nearly flew to Myka’s side.

Claudia, because she was polite, looked away from their reunion. She was sure it was mushy and embarrassing for both parties considering Artie made a strangled and annoyed noise and Pete wolfwhistled. Rebecca murmured that the whole thing was touching.

She leaned against a crate, watching the scene before her, and was happy that the day was saved, the case was sol-ved, and everything was going to be okay.

x

Somehow, Pete had convinced Artie to stick around Leena’s for a movie. Or Two. Claudia supposed that after what Rebecca had decided to do and how HG had agreed to it without so much as a raised eyebrow, they all needed a bit of an escape. He had disappeared up to his room and had come down with _Back to the Future_ on DVD an old VHS of _Bill and Ted._

Yes, this evening was going to be most excellent.

She had settled down in front of the couch, a pillow propping her up as HG gazed curiously at the television screen behind her. She could hear Myka whispering the historical facts of film to HG, and telling her a bit about both movies. Claudia turned and raised an eyebrow at both of them. “These are our childhood, HG.” She explained.

Pete scoffed, “ _Your_ childhood – were you even alive when either of these movies came out?”

Well, he had a point.

“I uh… no?” Claudia ventured and they all laughed.

Artie sighed, “Don’t worry about it Claudia, they’ll make you old before your time anyway.”

Claudia liked to think of herself as far too old for her time anyway, thank you very much. She stuck out her tongue to the room at large and settled back between HG and Myka’s legs to watch Michael J. Fox kick all sorts of lame Fifties ass.

Half-way though the movie Myka’s phone rang, Claudia shifted more into HG so that Myka could get up.

“Want me to pause it?” Leena asked from where she was perched on an ottoman armed with both remotes.

Myka shook her head. “Seen it a million times,” she said, before ducking out of the room.

Leena, being polite, turned the volume down a bit and Claudia half paid attention to what Myka was saying on the phone.

“Mom?” She heard, and then a long pause. She caught Myka’s sharp intake of breath and could see the way her shadow had become completely still in the hallway. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”


	11. Doubting, Dreaming - Or, Homecoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein there is much angst and a rather bothersome notebook without it's pen.
> 
> Warning that there is some discussion of abuse in this chapter, nothing too heavy, but some might find it triggering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'ed by the lovely spockette.

Her hand was shaking. Myka was dimly aware of this as she hung up the phone. Her father, the man that she hated and yet revered, was dying. They didn’t know what was wrong with him, and he was in the hospital and had been there since early that morning. When Myka’s brain had been fifty years in the past, preoccupied to the point of being almost distracted by how _horrible_ the nineteen sixties were.

The movie was still playing in the background, Michael J. Fox was shredding it on a guitar and thus breaking the time space continnum and Myka couldn’t bring herself to care despite it being her favorite part of the movie. She turned, standing in the doorway and tried to find her voice. She tried once to speak unsuccessfully, her hands still shaking. Her fingers were white knuckled around her phone.

“I have to go,” she finally managed to say when Leena noticed her and used her remote power to pause the movie. The four heads of the people closest to her in the whole world turned as one to stare at her and Myka found her voice gone once again. “My dad,” she choked out. She couldn’t believe how this was affecting her; she thought that she’d be dancing for joy. Her father had done nothing but make her childhood miserable, but she would prove herself to be the better person and go. She had to. It was her duty. “I have to go.”

Helena stood, legs brushing up against Claudia as she stepped around the red head. She crossed the room to Myka with a purposeful stride and pulled her into a tight hug, fingers pulling at the back of Myka’s shirt. It was warm there, safe. Myka felt her body relax just a little and she could feel the panic start anew within her.

“What do you need me to do?” Helena asked, so low that the rest of the room couldn’t hear her.

It was foolish, rash, impulsive. Myka could not have said anything – her parents knew so little of her life now that it did not even occur to her that this might be a bad decision. “Come with me?” She asked.

“Go.” Artie said, he had commandeered Claudia’s laptop from the dining room table and was furiously typing away at something. “There will be a plane to Colorado Springs in three hours out of Pierre Regional, if you hurry, you can get there in time.” Myka stiffened in Helena’s arms when Artie continued, “both of you are booked on it.”

Myka knew that Artie did not exactly approve of her relationship with Helena. She honestly did not blame him given the circumstances under which they had all met – but Helena had proven herself time and time again now, and Artie was starting to see that, or so Myka hoped. This was a huge, huge thing for him to do. She could not squander it.

She nodded at Artie and took Helena’s hand, pulling her up the stairs to the room they were not supposed to be sharing.

x

Her mother came to pick them up at the airport. Myka had called her from Pierre and had said that they’d managed to book a flight. Her mother, naturally, had wanted to know who was the plus one in Myka’s use of the word ‘they’ implied. She hadn’t been ready for that. Her mother had always been a wildcard. Quietly supportive of Myka’s life choices, but enabling the horrible way her homelife had developed during her childhood. She just hoped that this time it would be alright. She could not stand the idea of Helena having to witness her family at its worst.

Her parents knew, naturally, it would have been stupid to not tell them when she knew their politics – moderate and fair, tending towards conservative when asked outright. She had waited for the perfect moment though, all throughout her high school years. Tracy had found out early on and had assured Myka that she didn’t care.

It wasn’t until she loaded her final box of books into the back of the beat up old Subaru hatchback she’d bought to drive her to New York and college, that Myka had just blurted it out. A final fuck you to her father who couldn’t be bothered to even try and pretend like he loved her. She might as well be more of a disappointment and honest with him.

Needless to say, in that moment, Myka had never been more grateful for the trust that some wealthy alumni had set up that ended up paying for most of her college. Tracy had called her once she was settled at school and had told Myka about how close her parents had come to disowning her – and Myka did not go home again until Tracy’s funeral, two years later.

They’d known about Sam, what had happened in Denver, and why Myka had gotten the hell out of dodge. When she had first introduced Sam to them, her father had pulled her aside and had demanded to know if Myka was actually bisexual and just confused as she’d never met a man good enough for her.

She’d slapped her father and slept (with Sam) in a hotel for the rest of their visit. Myka was not interested in the repeat that was sure to happen. Her father was _such_ an ass. At least he’d actually liked her sister before she’d died. That was more than he’d ever done for Myka.

Myka was forever grateful that Helena seemed to understand that no one’s sexuality was truly solid. Sam was probably the exception, Helena was definitely the rule. Their fingers were tangled together the entire trip, despite the stewardess’ dirty looks and the turbulence, Myka could not let Helena let go, and Helena was apparently terrified of planes.

How she had managed to globetrot all over creation ah – _stalking_ – Myka was something of a mystery to the universe at large. So after the second rough patch and a string of late 19th century cursing so vulgar emerged from Helena’s lips that even the stewardess blushed, Myka decided to keep her talking to keep her distracted. She couldn’t feel her fingers any more.

“If you hate planes so much, how did you get around?” Myka asked.

Helena took a deep, calming breath, and loosened her grip, just a bit. “It is not so much the flying that bothers me, dirigibles were quite lovely back in the day, it is rather the noise and the sudden drops.” She pursed her lips, lost in thought. “And I took the train like any other civilized person would.”

Clearly, Helena Wells was insane. No one got on Amtrak unless they had to, it wasn’t nearly fast or efficient enough to actually function as a feasible means of transportation outside of the North East. Myka spent the rest of the trip extolling the virtues of the rail system in Europe and how she thought that the US could really expand theirs to keep people off of rather expensive airplanes.

“My mom,” Myka began as they got off the plane. Helena was ashen-faced and rattled after the puddle jumper that they had flown the hour and a half trip on had encountered a good bit of turbulence during the flight. Myka was probably going to have a bruise on her hand from where Helena had latched onto it and had refused to let go.

“Would _never_ make me fly in a death trap such as that again,” Helena muttered darkly as Myka gave her an encouraging smile. They found their bags waiting for them just inside the gate. The flight had been full and they’d been forced to gate check their carry-ons.

She laughed, it felt good, cathartic. “Well, I’m sure we can get a real flight home – go through Chicago or something. But as I was saying, Helena… My mother can be a little, well, nosy.” Helena raised an eyebrow at her and Myka added hastily, “Just so you know.”

Helena gave Myka one of her looks and an exaggerated shrug. Myka knew that it meant, ‘I am HG Wells, I have stared death in the face more times than I can count, was bronzed for a century, and I am unafraid of your mother.’ Thing was, Helena didn’t _know_ Myka’s mother.

She braced herself, as Helena brushed a strand of hair out of Myka’s vision and straightened Myka’s collar. “It will be alright,” Helena said softly, eyes never leaving Myka’s. The promise meant more than one thing, Myka knew that. This was Helena’s attempt at being nice, at giving sympathy.

For a woman so closed-off with her own emotions, Myka was touched.

Her mother was waiting, hair curling up under her winter cap and light jacket. It wasn’t cold enough for the winter jacket despite the sweater that Myka had insisted that Helena wear under her overcoat. She wasn’t that cold, adrenaline and fear had kept her body from shaking on more than one early November day in Colorado Springs.

Now though, Myka did shiver, the anticipation and the want to get back on the plane and write a letter to Tracy even though she was gone and explain to her exactly why her father was the most god-awful human being on the planet. She stood firm, raising the hand not clutching her carry-on and waved at her mother.

“Myka,” Her mother’s tone, at least, made her feel welcome. She was the eldest daughter, the only one left, she supposed that yes, they would be happy to see her return. Myka crossed to her mother, leaving Helena two steps behind, and was swept into a hug so tight that Myka wondered if she was the only tether that existed for her mother that kept her anchored in this world. “You look well, healthy, too skinny.

“Mom!” Myka protested with a smile. Without fail they would bring _that_ up, like clockwork, every time. Despite his being in the hospital, she was sure the first thing that her father would tell her would be to eat something.

Her mother held her at arm’s length, a warm smile on her face and her hands on Myka’s shoulders. She glanced over to see Helena, lingering just outside of this reunion and Myka flushed. She hadn’t meant to leave Helena standing there, awkward and alone.

“And who is this?” Her mother asked, fingers leaving Myka’s shoulders as she neatly sidestepped her daughter to offer her hand to Helena.

Myka nodded encouragingly behind her mother’s back and Helena took her mother’s hand. There was a moment, Myka noticed, when Helena’s eyes seemed to flash darkly, fearfully – before they settled. She wondered, privately, how many times Helena had been introduced as someone’s very female lover and it not going quite how she had planned. The Victorian Era, after all, was not known for being particularly direct about such things. “Helena Wells, it is a pleasure.”

Her mother shifted, her eyes brightening to almost normal levels as they shook. “Jeannie Bering,” Oh god her mother was _flustered_ , that was _never_ a good sign. Myka closed her eyes, counted to ten, and hoped the ground would crack open when her mother continued, “English are you?”

 _Why,_ Myka thought violently, _Why does she have a thing for foreigners. Why._

“Indeed I am,” Helena replied smoothly. Her voice was still distant, but oozing the charm that Myka had come to recognize as not being entirely genuine. Helena was good at that. She did it to Artie all the time, and Myka was pretty sure that that was the number one thing about Helena that still pissed Artie off. Letting her come with on this trip had been a blessing in disguise, it gave him time to really evaluate Helena’s actions and come to the (very logical) conclusion that Helena was not evil, was not trying to kill them all and certainly had nothing against the warehouse.

“Oh, Warren will adore you.” Her mother’s face turned sad and Myka swallowed. She wasn’t really sure she wanted to know. She had to, _had to_ know though. Had to know so she could figure out how terrible this visit was going to be.

Maybe they could make amends. Myka would like that, even if the rage of years of being ignored, treated like a failure, and being made miserable would not go away overnight. If her father was dying, Myka hoped his perspective on their relationship would change.

She was probably deluding herself.

Her mother’s voice seemed distant as Myka stared at her feet. Helena’s hand was resting on the small of her back, trying to urge her to look up, meet her mother’s fearful eyes. She couldn’t do it. She didn’t even know if she cared if her father lived or died. “They let him out of the hospital two hours ago, I took him home to rest – hospitals are death traps, you know. He’s on drugs for everything, but they can’t figure out what could have possibly happened to him.”

She looked up then, Helena’s face was impassive next to her, as distant from the situation as Myka felt. She gave her mother what she hoped was reminiscent of a smile. It looked more like a grimace, she knew. “Let’s just go home, mom, Helena and I have had a very long day.”

They started to head out of the airport, Myka’s mother leading the way at a place that suggested urgency that Myka did not feel. Her father was well enough to come home, which meant he probably wasn’t dying. Which meant that her mother had exaggerated things to bring her home. As usual.

Home to the abuse that she did not feel compelled to take any more.

Her mother pulled her aside as they exited the concourse, “Does she work with you at Hudson?” she asked, quietly, eyeing Helena as she walked sedately along beside them, apparently lost in her own thoughts.

Myka wondered what she was thinking.

“No mom, she doesn’t,” Her head shook in the negative, but she couldn’t help but grin when she added, “We met in a bookstore.”

“That’s lovely!” Her mother exclaimed, zipping up her jacket. “You two just wait here and I’ll come around with the car.” Not waiting – she never did – for Myka’s reply, her mother trotted off across the arrivals lot to the fifteen minute parking garage just across the road.

Helena’s hand found her own, cool fingertips brushing up against burning hot ones. Helena’s body temperature was still not quite steady and probably could never be. As far as they could tell, it was a side effect of the bronzing process, and there was no way to regulate it. Helena had tried, unsuccessfully, with some enzymes and some cobbled together glucose compound that apparently just made her stomach upset while on the run and Artie had called her an idiot for even attempting to correct it. It would go away in time, he promised, before asking Helena if she’d had Mumps as a child.

There had been many vaccinations given that day. Helena was not the biggest fan of needles. That fight had been _epic._

“Myka…” Helen’s fingers curled around her own and Myka turned to smile at her. This was kind of nice, in a weird way – Helena was getting to meet her family and see where she grew up. The bookstore where she’d first fallen in love with Helena’s mind and her ability to create the most fantastic stories, the bookstore that was truly the one place where Myka felt safe.

“Yes?”

Helena seemed to choose her words carefully. Her breath came in a cool puff of steam as she inhaled, changed her mind and then tried again. Myka could see her nervousness at asking this question by the way her jaw was set, how she swallowed nervously before speaking, “Have you informed your parents that you now work in South Dakota? At the Warehouse?”

She had not. She didn’t know why she hadn’t. She didn’t talk to her parents very much at all these days. There was no reason to call home anyway. They didn’t approve of her running from her problems and from the career that they actually had respected her for following. To tell them that she’d gone back would be foolish, they still would not approve.

They’d wanted her in Washington, in the high stress, high impact job. Protecting the president and the people of the city there. Important people, that her mother could brag about to her friends from church and the little old ladies that came into the bookstore.

She shook her head, protecting the president? She’d rather save the world. “I haven’t,” she confessed.

“You can tell them, they can be your one,” Helena pointed out. Her hand pulled away from Myka’s to push back into her pockets and she hunched her shoulders forward. Myka thought she looked dignified, like that, pointing out the truth that Myka tried so hard to ignore, her hair blowing behind her in the late autumn wind.

Helena turned then, her lips pulled upwards in a smile as she inclined her head towards Myka. “I’d fancy being your one, but I know all about the warehouse already, so that would be rather pointless.”

“You already were,” Myka mumbled, bending to pick up her carry-on as her mother’s car pulled up in front of them. “But I understand what you’re saying, Helena.”

That earned her a small smile as they both clambered, like children coming home from soccer practice, into the backseat.

x

“Yes, Pete, he’s fine. They don’t know what happened. The doctors think that it could be viral.” Myka leaned down, getting as close to the Farnsworth as she dared, her voice dropping lower as she added, almost surprising herself as she put her fears into words, “I know it’s just because of the warehouse, but you don’t think…?”

Pete promised her that he’d check. He looked genuinely concerned and had even offered to come and help out if that was what she needed. Artie had them doing inventory apparently and he was bored out of his skull after he found out that no, he could not attempt to learn how to juggle with flaming swords. They were artifacts, and could probably burn the place down.

Myka closed the Farnsworth and slipped back inside the bookstore and upstairs. She was exhausted; her feet were unimaginably heavy as she thought about going back and sitting down at that table to listen to more of her father’s borderline abusive comments to her and the way that he was being just barely polite to Helena.

To be fair, Helena was being just barely polite right back, but with a British accent everything sounded good.

She paused at the door, jamming the Farnsworth as far down the back of her pants as it will go. She doesn’t know what to tell her parents about the warehouse, or the fact that she’s using an ancient looking video-walkie talkie that shouldn’t exist to call friends when she should be hovering over her father as though he’ll expire at any moment. It sat awkwardly against her tailbone and Myka shifted, trying to get it back into position. Finally, she managed to get it where she wanted it, and put her hand on the door, pushing it open to the sound of her father’s voice, “Tell me, Helena, what do you do for a living?” Oh god, this probably wasn’t going to end well.

“Once upon a time, I was a writer, now I work in conjunction with the American Secret Service.” Helena’s voice lowered conspiratorially, “They gave me a badge.” Myka knew that Helena was trying to be charming, and for the most part succeeding, but there was still that cold edge to her voice that she knew was because of how her father was speaking to her, as though Myka wasn’t even really there.

“And hopefully some expectation of professional discretion,” Myka said, sitting back down and taking the salad bowl as her mother shoved it into her hands. She set it down next to her plate and resumed the motions of before Pete had called, pushing the food around on her plate and not really feeling like eating much at all.

Helena smirked at Myka from over her glass of water. Myka rolled her eyes and nibbled on a bit of lettuce. It made her stomach turn and she set it back down. It was going to be a long few days.

She exhaled, clearing her mind of any anger as best she could. Sam had taught her how to calm herself down by yelling at her and telling her to go do yoga if she wanted to relax. She had taken his advice to heart for about a year, after which she’d just stuck to the breathing techniques and little else. Her father was sick, yes, but probably not about to die. She did not feel guilty for dropping a metaphorical bomb on them both.

No, not at all.

“Actually, I’ve been meaning to talk to both of you about this and circumstances have dragged me home, so I might as well do it now.” When both of her parents stopped eating and turned to stare at Myka expectantly, she didn’t want to talk any more. She felt awkward at the center of attention, she always had. She was better at being a wallflower, privately, quietly observant. She didn’t like it – Tracy had loved it. It was the one difference that had created a rift between them. Myka had been older and book smart, Tracy younger and people smart. It had worked out well for her up until the point where she ended up in a drunk boy’s car headed home from the winter formal her senior year of high school.

Myka did not want to think about Tracy.

She took another deep, calming breath, and announced. “I’ve been reinstated to the secret service, working at a top secret post in South Dakota. Helena works there as well.”

It felt strange, saying it. Not at all like she’d anticipated. She knew she could not tell her parents everything, that they wouldn’t want to know and that she didn’t have the clearance to be revealing such sensitive information like that. But to say the words, to give them hope that one day their daughter would die a hero was enough for her now. She exhaled and ate her salad. It was easier now, and her mother’s dressing was always good.

Her mother set down her fork, watching Myka eat, waiting until she swallowed to smile and nod her approval. “That’s lovely dear.”

“Finally finished running away from your problems, huh sport?” Her father, however, was not quite so forthcoming with his praise. She supposed that she should have seen that coming. Her dad had never approved of Myka choosing to major in literature. He loved books more than anything in the world, but he did not approve of her following blindly down the same path he did.

In the back of her mind, Myka knew that this was probably because running Bering & Sons had been Tracy’s dream. She had loved the idea of the business since she was a child, Myka had only ever loved the books.

She turned a cool gaze towards her father, noticing for the first time how drawn and plane his skin was. “I was Shanghai’ed,” she said quietly and pointedly.

He wouldn’t take the hint to drop it. He never did.

“Is that some professor speak for doing your sworn duty?”

Myka sighed and threw up her hands, her meal forgotten. “Dad I _just_ got here,” she said quietly. “And you’re sick.”

Her father pushed away from the table, setting his napkin on top of his empty plate. “I’m going downstairs.”

She folded her arms across her chest and watched him go, glaring in his wake.

“Myka…” Her mother said quietly, but Myka raised a hand and shook her head.

“I won’t, not this time.”

Her mother sighed, and stood, gathering the plates. “I wish you wouldn’t push him so, he’s sick.”

Her eyes met Helena’s over the table and Myka felt her cheeks burn in shame. This had been a very bad idea.

x

Her father had another attack, his body convulsing on the floor, the book he was reading falling uselessly against his knees. Myka knew that he was a hard man, but in this state, black curling marks twining up his skin, he looked so vulnerable she almost felt sorry for him.

Of course the fact that he’d somehow found an artifact did not sit well with her either. Helena had found a pair of gloves in her jacket pocket and was squatting, careful to never fully allow her fingers to linger on the page as she flipped it open. Myka’s eyes darted from Helena back to her mother, who was in the process of trying to argue that her father needed to go to the hospital.

“Mom, this isn’t something that they can fix,” Myka said for what felt like the tenth time. She was trying to remain calm, to remain grounded. She did not know what else she could possibly say or do other than to yank the cell phone out of her mother’s hands and call Artie. He’d know what to do.

“How could you possibly know that, Myka?” Her mother demanded, “You work for the secret service, your background is in _literature_ – what could you possibly know?”

Quite a lot, but Myka was not keeping score.

“Mom, this is what I do, at work. I handle cases like this, cases that cannot be explained by conventional means.” Myka turned to Helena, her face pulling upwards slightly into a grimace of concern in case her father happened to suddenly become lucid. “Do you recognize it?”

Helena nodded, turning the book around gingerly, “Look.”

Myka leaned forward, squinting at the nearly unintelligible writing. She saw two initials, and then a name that filled her with dread. If anyone’s writing could have created an artifact, she supposed _his_ would be at the top of the list. “Poe?” she breathed, a sick, twisted feeling settling in the pit of her stomach.

“It would explain quite a lot about the situation, given the violent nature of your father’s spasms.” Myka eyed Helena as she flipped the book back towards herself, her tongue just barely poking out of pursed lips as she concentrated. Not that that was distracting. No, not at all. “Yes…” she began, turning a page carefully. “Nasty bit of work, that.”

She raised an eyebrow, half-encouraging Helena to continue.

This was their secret language. One that they both could speak easily and fluently. It had come naturally from the first time they had met and Myka was grateful for it now. Her father was half-moaning, half-screaming and her mother was making frantic humming noises that were putting Myka on edge. Being able to speak without words was a valuable asset.

Helena bent to sniff the page and pulled her head back, nose wrinkled in disgust. “Wolcott and I encountered it back then, ninety-five, I believe – had to gallivant around New Orleans for nearly three weeks tracking down the other half.” Helena smiled as though recalling a fond memory. “Quite the curiosity, that.”

She’d mentioned a Wolcott before. Myka recalled the few times he’d come up in conversation and the brief mention of him in Helena’s file from Warehouse 12. She didn’t know that much about him, to be completely honest, and Helena was not the most forthcoming with personal details on a good day. Myka supposed that that was just how Helena had been raised. In that time nothing was direct and everything was innuendo. She was leaving bits out now, important bits that she should probably be sharing with Myka, but as her father stopped convulsing and collapsed heavily against the sofa they had settled him on when the attack started, she felt as though she could relax enough to ask.

“Was he your partner?”

Her father groaned and Myka’s mother bustled forward, Helena scooping up the artifact book in one purple-gloved hand and backing away and towards the stairs. Myka followed her and the sat next to each other on the narrow staircase, bodies pressed together. She welcomed the comfort, and Helena’s arm slipped around her shoulders, pulling her in close. It was warm there, safe.

“Apprentice, yes.” Helena answered as they watched Myka’s parents speak in low voices across the room. “He was rather young when we were first paired, and neither of us was truly ready for what we encountered.” She shook her head, a small smile playing at her lips. “He was so vibrant, so full of life. So mind-numbingly sensible.”

“Were you two close?” Myka asked.

“Not really. I think he was rather terrified of me. Probably a good thing.” Helena shrugged. She looked down at the book still held gingerly in one gloved hand. Myka shifted, checking her pockets for gloves. All she could find was the Farnsworth, still wedged down her pants. “This, however, this is something else. We will probably have to call Agent Nielsen and see what he proposes we do about it – as the other half is clearly active.”

Normally artifacts came in one piece. She remembered reading about a process that allowed not one artifact, but two to be made out of one intent, but she could not recall ever encountering one at the Warehouse. Myka frowned, taking the other glove that Helena offered and cradling the book in her hands.

It felt so small, so light, so completely and totally innocent. This was what had nearly killed her father? It seemed so improbable. Her father wasn’t the sort to lay down without a fight. That was Myka’s job, or at least how her parents saw it. She set the book down on the step below them. “What do you mean other half?”

Helena’s arm was warm against the small of her back, it lingered there, reassuring and comforting. Myka didn’t want to leave this embrace ever again. “It is bifurcated, in two parts. The other half was a pen, long and black and rather nasty – made the things you wrote come true. Poe’s writing was known for that.” The hand on her back patted her softly and Helena’s eyes were full of promise. “Your father will be fine for tonight, so long as whoever has the pen does not use it. I will call Agent Nielsen and apprise him of the situation.”

x

Her mother had set them up in separate rooms. Myka wasn’t surprised, she did that when Sam came home with her that one time too. It was the way that her mother looked at her and shook her head sadly and how her father, staggering and ashen faced, pulled Helena aside and said that there will be none of _that_ under his roof. The threat was clear despite how her father’s voice shook as he spoke the words, black ink from Poe’s book still swirling all over his arms. They hadn’t really told him what was going on, but Myka had implied enough to make him feel safe.

Helena said that it wouldn’t stop until the whole thing was neutralized. Pete and Claudia are bringing a canister of neutralizer tomorrow – the static bag that Myka found at the bottom of her suitcase did nothing but cause the power to go out temporary.

She went to bed in her childhood bedroom, surrounded by bad memories and hateful thoughts. Myka knew that this was not her father’s fault, but she could not help it. She was worried for her father, fearful for him – of him. She did not like feeling this way, conflicted and torn up inside.

It was her duty to save him, she wanted to let Poe’s book take him.

Myka shook her head violently, trying to dislodge the urge to run and never look back from her mind. It’s there, playing – lurking. Evil, filling her with doubts and dreams. Probably a side effect from the artifact.

It was close to eleven thirty when she finally rose from her childhood bed and crept, in an action much reminiscent to herself as a child, down the hallway to what had once been her sister’s room. Her parents, after Tracy had been gone five years, had converted it regretfully into a guest room that no one ever slept in if they could avoid it. The couch in the living room pulled out and it was far quieter at that end of the apartment – as it did not face the city street.

The light was still on and Myka turned the handle gratefully, desperate to return to the one place that she knew she’d feel calm enough to sleep.

Helena was reading, her hair damp and hanging around her face as she leaned over the papers she had spread out over the bed. Myka had seen that folio before, back when they’d first busted into the crates that had been delivered of Helena’s things from Warehouse 12.

“This all feels very high school… sneaking in to be with you.” Myka confessed, sitting on the edge of the bed and pulling a stack of papers towards her. Helena’s handwriting was atrocious, and with an ink pen it grew even worse, curling and turning every which way. “What are these?”

“My notes from the various curiosities – artifacts – that I looked into during my tenure at Warehouse 12, I know that I documented the appearance of the other half of that artifact somewhere.” Helena set the stack of papers that she’d just gone through down and pulled another stack towards her. Fingers flying as she flipped through them, eyes bright and intense.

She did not know what to say to Helena. She wanted to say so much, but the words died in her throat as she read Helena’s notes on a woman’s compact that made you kill what you loved most. She shuddered, trying not to think about it, about anything. Myka couldn’t shut her brain off and it was killing her.

Myka leaned forward, fingers closing over Helena’s, pulling the papers away from her lover, setting them back in the folio and closing it carefully, so as not disturb them. She couldn’t look at Helena as she spoke, shame burning on her cheeks. “Helena… I’m sorry for him. He has no right to treat you that way.”

An arm snaked around her, the other plucked the folio off of the covers and set it on the bedside table. Helena was warm, comforting. Exactly what Myka wanted, where she could feel safe and in control. Helena would never push her, never force her into doing anything that she did not feel comfortable doing – ceding control, if that was what Myka needed, without a word.

There was quiet murmur in Helena’s chest as she spoke, Myka could feel it as she buried her face in Helena’s night shirt, afraid to look up and meet those expectant brown eyes. “Myka, why do you let him? You’re better than that.”

She didn’t know.

People had told her that over the years. Sam had taken particular offense to the way that her father had treated her. He understood that the loss of child changed people, sometimes for the worse, but Myka’s father had been like that for as long as Myka could remember.

When she was younger, and had read _Pride and Prejudice_ for the first time, she saw so much of her father in Mr. Bennet, and yet so little when his true personality came out. Bennet was able to easily relate to the daughter that Myka saw so much of herself in – and she hated that book when she realized that she and her father would never have that sort of a relationship.

Her father had wanted a son – he had named the bookshop when Myka’s mother was still pregnant with her. They had thought she was going to be a boy.

She sighed, tears already springing to her eyes as she wrapped her arms around Helena and did not let go. Her voice was muffled through Helena’s stomach and night clothes, “It’s hard, you know. The ogre of my entire life – it’s been him – I don’t know how to be strong.”

Not about this, anyway.

Her father was dying and she wanted the black to take him.

Helena’s fingers tangled in her hair, caressing soothing patterns on her scalp. Myka shifted, swallowing her fear, her pride, and turning her eyes up to Helena. Her lips were shaking, and her cheeks were burning.

She never wanted anyone to know about this – her secrets were her own to keep. She knew better that to lie, to try and keep it from the one person around her who seemed to understand who she was outside of the context of the warehouse. Helena understood her, for better or for worse.

“You are the strongest person I know,” Helena whispered. Her eyes were dark and unreadable. Myka could never read her as well as she could suspects or witnesses. Helena was an enigma, her thoughts were closed off and private – she shared only what she had to.

Myka was the same way, they were both still learning that they could truly trust each other.

Their bodies shifted, Myka moving upwards, pushing Helena back down onto the overstuffed pillows her mother favored and Myka hated so much. She buried her face in Helena’s hair as her lover continued, “Please remember that.”

“Helena…” Myka mumbled. She didn’t know what to say. She certainly did not feel like the bravest person Helena knew.

She knew it wasn’t lip service; Helena was far too resolutely truthful for that.

“I love you.” There was a promise in Helena’s voice that seemed oddly displaced. Myka had heard that tone before. When Helena had mentioned that there were things that she had wanted while bronzed that she no longer wanted. Myka wondered what part in all that she had had to play. She hoped she was not changing Helena for the worse.

Helena kissed her forehead, eyes kind and shining. “Be brave.” She whispered.

Myka collapsed on Helena’s chest, her hands balling up fists of Helena’s shirt as she could not stop the words from escaping her lips. She was not nearly as strong as Helena thought she was. “God, I wish I had your strength. This place makes me such a mess.”

“Then sleep, tomorrow is a new day.”

x

Pete and Claudia arrived at seven the following morning, banging on the bookshop door as Myka blearily untangled herself from Helena’s arms and slipped downstairs. She let them in and they found her father sitting behind the counter. The book in front of him, writing swirling up his forearms. He glared at Pete, but nodded to Claudia, which Myka was grateful for as they dropped Poe’s book into the canister of neutralizer that was currently slung over Claudia’s shoulder.

Nothing. They had suspected that this might happen, and Myka felt sick to her stomach. Her father’s expectant stare, expecting her to fix things was not helping.

He wasn’t rude to them, per say, but as they all stared expectantly at the canister of neutralizer – Myka knew what her father was thinking. It wasn’t good.

She slipped out with Pete, after taking Claudia upstairs to Helena and introducing her to her mother. She could hear Pete talking to her father downstairs and cringed as she heard the harsh edge in Pete’s voice as he announced that he was buying everyone breakfast to make up for his intrusion into Myka’s parent’s home.

They walked up the road, to a bakery that Myka had once loved as a child, she did not think that she could eat, but Pete loved pastries and comfort food was good for everyone. Artie was working furiously to find something, anything, that could point them towards the other half of the artifact.

Myka was sick to her stomach. The bag of pastries in her arms was not helping.

Pete seemed to think about his words for a moment before he finally said quietly, as they rounded the corner and come onto the street where Myka had grown up. “You weren’t kidding.”

She blinked, wondering what he was talking about. She shifted, turning to look at him. “About what?”

Pete sighed, kicking a rock down the road ahead of him. “Your dad, he’s a real piece of work.”

“He’s just not good at expressing himself,” the rock that Pete had kicked was in front of Myka now. She leaned back and kicked it hard, foul shot style, watching as it bounced down the sidewalk and into the road. She couldn’t look at Pete.

“You shouldn’t make excuses for him.” Pete grumbled, but he had obviously given up on arguing with her. Myka was grateful, she knew that she shouldn’t – she knew she shouldn’t do a lot of things that she did, and yet she still did them anyway.

“I’m not.” She was.

Myka’s key slid home in the lock and Claudia came thumping down the stairs (Myka heard her father’s anguished groans and realized that he was having another attack). “Guys, Artie has a ping. It’s in Seattle. You and I are going, Pete. Flight’s in two hours.” She had her bag over her shoulder already and was buttoning up her winter jacket, deep purple scarf clashing brilliantly with the neon green streak in her hair.

Pete reached into the bag and grabbed what looked to be half the pastries. He popped a donut into his mouth and handed Claudia a muffin. “Hang in there partner, don’t let HG bore your dad to death.” Pete inclined his head to where Myka could hear Helena’s voice, low and steady. “Sounds like she’s reading him the dictionary.”

Claudia nodded, explaining in hurried sentences that Artie had recommended that they should read to her father in order to keep him anchored.

Pete clasped Myka’s shoulder and pulled her into a one-armed hug. “You’ll be okay,” he said earnestly. “I promise.”

x

They read to her dad for hours. Myka’s voice grew hoarse and Helena took over, Myka leaning against Helena’s legs, listening as Helena painted pictures with words. They stayed away from the classics of Helena’s time, Myka finding a copy of _Mary Poppins_ in the children’s section. She had fond memories of that book – Tracy had loved it and her father had read it to the pair of them when they were six and four, respectively. Helena had never read it, as it was written in the 1930s, and seemed very intrigued by it.

“It’s sweet of you,” Myka’s mother commented as she wrung out the washcloth that they’d kept across Myka’s father’s face – trying to regulate the fever that was raging within him. “To read to him.”

Myka wished that she could agree. She felt like it was just her duty, she didn’t feel anything personally; and that was the worst part of it all.

She shrugged, thinking about what Helena had reiterated to her about Artie’s theory that the best way to bring her father back from this was what he loved most. The books weren’t really doing it – they’d tried Orwell, Steinbeck, even Hemmingway. Every single one of her father’s favorite authors had brought about little or no change. Myka had pulled down a copy of _War of the Worlds_ with a wry smile and Helena had shaken her head. “I don’t think that will work.”

No, they needed something different. Something that her father loved more than anything in the world.

Myka didn’t know her father well enough to know what that would be.

“He wrote, you know,” Her mother continued and Helena paused, the final line of the chapter dying at her lips. “A novel. Never could bring himself to get it published. Didn’t want to share it.”

Myka frowned. She had never head of her father writing. He was a lover of business and of books, not of the craft itself.

The pieces fell into place, clicking like tumblers in a lock that had just been successfully picked. Helena seemed to follow her line of thought, closing _Mary Poppins_ and asking, “Do you still have what he wrote?”

“The words he loved the most,” Myka muttered, scrambling to her feet. Pete had called, they’d found the kid, but he was crazy with the power of Poe’s pen and they were presently trying to stop him from using it again.

“Upstairs, in his sock drawer,” Her mother said and Myka was gone, dashing up the stairs, her feet pounding as she came into her parents’ bedroom. She fell quiet then, she’d never really liked coming in here, it was her father’s private sanctuary and not to be trespassed without a reason. Her father’s dresser was littered with bits of paper, a few framed photographs and a well-thumbed copy of the _Eagle Scout Handbook._

Myka had always wanted to be a boy scout. She’d liked camping as a kid.

Underneath the pairs of Christmas socks that Myka and Tracy had jokingly given their father every year at Christmas as children was a sheaf of papers, held together by a large binder clip. Myka scooped them up, reading the title curiously and flipping to the next page as her legs carried her, on autopilot, towards the door. The dedication page came next, a simple sentence centered in the middle of the page.

 __

For Myka, you were the one that came first, and I could never be more proud of you.

Myka stopped, her feet frozen to the ground. Where the hell did he get off on writing something like that? He wasn’t proud of her, clearly. He hated what she did for a living, hated that she had left the service after Sam had died – probably hated it even more now that she was back working (at least officially) for them, but not in DC.

 _What the fuck,_ Myka thought, tucking the papers under her arm and resolutely deciding that her father was an ass, emotionally stunted, and not worthy of her time if he was going to think one thing and then do another.

Still, she had to save him, stopping errant artifacts was her job, no matter who they were affecting.

She read her father’s words for what seemed like hours, his beautiful rambling story about a man who had wanted a son but had been given the ultimate gift, a daughter. A story about how much he loved her, about how much he cared, and how he struggled to show it.

She hated every word of it.

The Farnsworth buzzed about half-way through the fifth chapter (Myka was three and Tracy was an infant) and Helena got up to answer it. Myka half paid attention as her father’s breathing slowed and the panic seemed to subside. His body was still clearly and deeply affected by the book – but it seemed to have stabilized. Now, Pete was theorizing over Claudia’s shoulder on the Farnsworth, they just had to reunite them and all would be good again. They were going to call Artie and confirm, just to be safe.

Well, as good as it would ever be.

“Mom,” Myka said, handing her mother the sheaf of papers. “You should read the rest to him. I… I need a break.”

“Will it be over soon?” Her mother asked, settling into the chair that Myka had vacated.

Myka nodded, inclined her head to Helena and headed upstairs. She couldn’t take much more of this.

Helena followed her, stopping her at the top of the stairs, pulling her into a tight hug. “I know this is difficult,” Helena whispered, her voice breaking as Myka finally let the emotions and rage that she’d kept back as she’d read her father’s words loose. “I am truly sorry.”

She was so sick of crying. So fucking sick of it. Crying over a man who couldn’t even bother to tell her that he loved her and yet wrote so beautiful about it. It was horseshit, plain and simple. She was so sick of him and his shit.

Her fists balled angrily in the back of Helena’s shirt and she stayed there, crying – trying to calm down.

Helena did not push, did not say anything at all. She just stood there, letting Myka drain the emotions that she could not quite bring herself to articulate outside of angry tears, and Myka loved her all the more for it.

Claudia and Pete made it back to Colorado Springs in less than eight hours. Myka was genuinely impressed considering they had to fly to Phoenix in the process. They reunited Poe’s pen with his book and Myka’s father was finally able to breathe a little easier. The writing was gone, the artifact was neutralized and Myka wanted to go home.

Artie found them eleven PM overnight flights and Myka took them, despite the fact that her mother tried to insist that they all spend the night. She couldn’t stay, she had to get out.

Pete called a cab and he and Helena were waiting downstairs for it, Claudia was lost somewhere in a technical manual that she’d never read before.

“Myka,” Her father said as Myka zipped up her duffle. “Thank you.”

She couldn’t turn to look at him, so instead holstered her gun and clipped it to her belt. Her badge came next, the repetitive motions of getting ready, presenting herself as professional, formal, in charge.

The wall over her bed was decorated with a cross stitch her grandmother had made her as a baby and a framed picture of the cover of _The Very Hungry Caterpillar_. She had always loved that story, even as a teenager trying to rebel against everything that was childish about her bedroom, that picture had remained on her wall. Marking the metamorphosis that she had yet to undergo. That had come later, in college. “It’s my duty.” She said simply, gathering her bag and pulling the strap over her shoulder.

Myka turned to face her father, her face hard, unreadable. “And you’re welcome.”

There was nothing else to say.

“Look I-“ Her father stared at his hands for a moment, hanging uselessly at his sides.

Curls fell into her eyes as Myka shook her head. “No, dad. Maybe someday, but not now.” She looked away, trying to not cry again. “You’ve damaged me more than I know.”

There was silence, and her father stepped aside from the doorway, holding out his arm to Myka as she walked by him. “She’s a nice girl, sport.” Her father smiled. “You could do a whole lot worse.”

“She’s HG Wells dad, I couldn’t do much better.” Myka grinned, realizing that this was the moment when her parents became her one. Helena was already there, already knew and there was no one else in her life that she could tell – Tracy was gone. “Thank you for introducing me to her writing.”

And with that, Myka kissed her mother on the cheek and tucked the static bag containing Poe’s book and pen under her arm and walked out of her childhood home.


	12. Egypt - Or, Conflict of Interest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein there is much Indiana Jones and the Warehouse of Doom.
> 
> Warnings: this chapter talks about suicide and self-harm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'ed by the lovely spockette.

She had never truly had a home before. A place to rest, yes; an empty and soulless place that contained her material possessions and very little else. Leena’s Bed and Breakfast felt like the safest place on earth for Myka as they slumped into the B&B at four in the morning. The flight had come into Pierre Regional at three and they’d driven an hour through a light snow to back to Univille and home.

Yes, _home._

It was something she realized, and something that stuck with Myka in the weeks that followed her harrowing misadventure back at her parent’s house. Home was with Pete and Claudia, with Leena and Artie, with _Helena._ Home was waking up to the quiet mechanical clicks of Helena taking apart the alarm clock ‘to see how it worked’ and home was Pete stuffing a million croissants into his mouth and flirting with Kelly Hernandez, the town’s vet. Home was Artie being an ass and Claudia antagonizing him worse than Helena.

Home was the people that she’d come to love, not the people who could barely express their love for her in words.

It was close to Thanksgiving and Myka had already declined her mother’s invitation to go home, saying that they had been temporarily reassigned to DC to protect the president over the holiday. It was a lie, but her mother seemed to buy it and she started to plot what it would be like to have a Thanksgiving dinner with everyone in her new family. To give thanks for each other, and for the fate that had brought them all together in the first place.

Her plans were waylaid one frost-bitten morning, despite her best intentions.

Myka woke up on November 23rd under the weight of two quilts and Helena’s arm and a good bit of her lover’s hair going up her nose. A weak stream of sunlight as just peeking through the half-drawn curtains on the window and Myka could see that Jack Frost himself had carved little patterns of frozen condensation on the window.

The room was silent save for the banging of the radiator, which had been what had pulled Myka to wakefulness in the first place. The heat was coming on, which was a good thing, as Myka could see her breath.

Beside her, Helena stirred, her body shifting closer to Myka, arm wrapping more tightly around her lover’s body. “What time is it?” Helena muttered groggily into Myka’s shoulder.

She turned, squinting at the alarm clock. Her glasses were on the bedside table, but she would be damned if she was going to put them on just to see the clock that was two feet away from her.

“A little after seven,” Myka discerned eventually as Helena began to seem more awake.

She had been having such a nice dream, before radiator had started up. Helena had been in it, splayed out under Myka like a goddess, her hair a dark halo on crisp white linen sheets. Myka had been so taken with her lover lying like that, eyes turned upward in a gesture that could only be passive submission, that she had almost forgotten that the dream was obviously sexual in nature and she should probably get on with it.

And then the radiator had started up and all hope for a lovely early morning dream was completely gone.

She shifted her weight, leg that was only halfway between Helena’s settling more firmly into place, her lips brushing against Helena’s cheek. “Good morning,” she said quietly, bending, kissing Helena the nose.

“Your breath is atrocious,” Helena muttered, flailing as Myka adjusted the covers so that no heat was escaping.

“Too bad,” Myka retorted, kissing Helena full on the lips. She had never had a relationship quite like this before. One where she did not feel awkward just being herself, to act impulsively on a dream that she had had, to have sex in the morning before brushing her teeth.

Helena’s breath was just as bad, after all.

Her hands slipped under the blankets, touching the bare skin that she had revealed to the world the previous evening. There were still marks on the pale column of Helena’s neck from their lovemaking, and Myka’s thighs were still uncomfortably sore from the exertion.

But this was a new day, and Myka knew just how she wanted to start it.

She moved away from Helena’s lips, leaning down to kiss the places where her tongue and teeth and nails had left marks the night before, kissing them, drawing a particularly dark spot just at the swell of Helena’s breast back into her mouth, sucking and biting gently, delighting in the gasp she elicited from Helena, how Helena’s hands tangled in her hair, holding Myka to the spot.

“Myka…” Helena breathed as Myka’s cool fingers found the warm skin of Helena’s breast, grabbing it, feeling the weight of it in her hand, rolling her palm over already taut nipples. “Myka please.”

Apparently, as Myka’s hand drifted further down, she was not the only one who had been having interesting dreams.

It was early, they had a full day ahead of them, and as Myka slipped under the covers, legs curling up underneath her body, she smirked up at Helena. She did love it when she got her lover to beg.

Her fingers slipped inside easily, drawing a muffled moan from Helena, and a hand tangled in Myka’s hair as she allowed her lips to dip down, seeking what she could no longer see, moving on body instinct alone.

She set a furious pace, hard and fast and dirty like how her dream was sure to have ended. Her tongue fell home and her fingers matched the pace, drawing themselves in and out with every pull of Myka’s lips.

From under the covers, outside of the hot and muffled world, Myka knew that Helena had her fist stuffed in her mouth to keep from crying out and waiting the entire household. She smirked, despite herself, almost wanting them to know – wanting them to hear it as she claimed this beautiful and untouchable woman as her own, marking her territory with harsh fingernails biting into gyrating hips.

She drew her fingers apart slightly as she pulled them out of Helena, before pushing them together and hooking forward, searching for that spot – the one she knew would send Helena over the edge. She could hear the just barely stifled cries now, and her intent turned wicked as Helena pulled at her hair, trying to hold her face as close to her core as possible.

Myka wanted to draw this out as long as possible, to see how long she could make Helena last, to see if she would _beg._ But it was the morning, and Leena’s hot water heater was not what it could have been. If they wanted hot showers and not lukewarm ones, they would have to hurry. Her lips curled and her pace quickened. The time to see what Helena would do, and potentially the opportunity to relish leaving her hanging, would come later. When it was not freezing outside.

She could feel Helena’s climax coming almost before Helena herself could, the subtle clenching of thighs, the fact that it was suddenly very difficult to breathe in her dark and wet and hot sanctuary. Myka didn’t care, she drew Helena in, sucking, biting, hitting that spot with her fingers again and again until Helena cried out, hips bucking upwards and Myka struggling to hold them down.

“I had the most wonderful dream,” Myka confessed as she surfaced from underneath the covers, face still a bit sticky and a devilish look in her yes. “I just… I had to.”

Helena brushed a curl away from her face, caressing her cheek. “I would never say no.”

Myka swallowed, wondering if Helena realized the implication of such a statement. Probably not, she couldn’t let it show. That was not something about herself that she was entirely comfortable with; and this was not the time or the place for it.

She kissed Helena, long and slow, and then pulled her up and out of bed and into the bathroom. “Quick,” she said, “before all the hot water is gone.”

x

“Where’s the fire,” Pete demanded upon finding Mrs. Frederic sitting on the couch in the corner of the office with a towel over her eyes and a worried looking Mr. Kosan hovering by her side. They had come as soon as they could, Artie’s desperate phone call from the Warehouse pulling them from their breakfast and out into the car. Even Leena had come along, coat bundled around her bathrobe and a skull cap pulled down over her still damp hair, it was frizzing now in the heat of the office.

Mr. Kosan shifted, his whole body seeming to suddenly take up more of the room than before. Helena’s hand found Myka’s, fingerless gloves against bare skin. Myka squeezed, worried about what was to come.

Helena had mentioned speaking to him – before she had returned to the warehouse. He was the man who was hidden in plain sight, the one who made the decisions, she had said. He was terrifying, dark, intense, Middle Eastern of some sort. Helena had hypothesized Egyptian – as they usually rose to high places within the warehouse hierarchy.

He was the one who had allowed Helena to come back, and they’d struck a bargain that Helena had never spoken about. Myka did not push; she knew that Helena would share when she was ready.

“It appears that Agent Wells’ information has proven correct,” Mr. Kosan said, stepping to map that Artie had obviously pulled down last night after they had all left. It was of the Nile Delta, near Cairo, close to the Valley of the Kings.

There was a gleam in Helena’s eyes as Myka turned to stare at her. It was almost malicious, manic – full of fearful joy and pride at what she had discovered, but Myka could see an underlying darker emotion in the way that Helena’s jaw was set, her lip curling just so.

“As I am sure you are all aware, the first warehouse was built by Alexander the Great to hold an artifact so powerful that even he did not trust himself with it. As the Greek Empire fell, the warehouse was moved to Egypt, where it stayed for some time,” Kosan’s finger was tapping on a spot just west of the Nile River, in the middle of a largely unpopulated area. “It was lost when the Romans attacked, sealed up and forgotten.”

“Until now?” Pete asked, peering curiously at Mrs. Frederic. “What’s up with Mrs. F?”

“The guardian…” They all turned to stare at Helena, who was staring at Mr. Kosan, a fearful look in her eyes. “You sent a team there, didn’t you? You turned it back on.”

Mr. Kosan looked at his hands, but then nodded. “While confirming the location to truly be that of the former warehouse per Agent Wells’ description, the team of young Egyptologists we sent accidentally triggered one of the warehouse’s defense mechanism.” Kosan turned back to the map, his mouth drawn into a hard line. “As of this morning, they are all dead.”

Myka frowned, thinking of the risk, of how absolutely dangerous it would be to go to a place filled with ancient artifacts so deadly that even time forgot them.

“So,” Artie began, pushing his chair away from his desk. “You three are going to Egypt to meet up with the expert of Warehouse Two, who is going to, in turn, turn that thing off so that Mrs. Frederic will not spontaneously combust while trying to be the guardian of two warehouses at once.”

Pete made a strangled ‘do not want’ sort of a noise in the back of his throat and Claudia dropped her bag down onto the couch next to Mrs. Frederic and pulled out her laptop. Myka watched as she parsed out wires and eventually found the one she was looking for, raising an eyebrow as Mrs. Frederic surrendered her index finger without question. “Woah, Mrs. F, your brain waves are through the roof.”

“Which is why you three must hurry,” Her voice was hoarse, but Mrs. Frederic managed a half smile at Claudia. “I will fight this as long as I can…”

Myka nodded and Helena pulled open the door behind them. The umbilicus was frozen, they didn’t bother to heat it, and Myka shivered as Pete collected their tickets from Artie, as well as a bag full of supplies. “We’ll drive you back,” Myka said to Leena, but Leena shook her head.

“I think I’m needed here,” She tossed Myka her keys. Myka caught them and shoved them inside her coat pocket. She would leave them on the kitchen table and just take the house key. “Lock the front door when you leave, I’ll use the key in the flower pot on the porch.”

“Go!” Artie said, making a shooing motion with his hands. “Your contact will meet you there.”

Helena lingered by the door, eyes wide and a hand clasped over her mouth until Myka pulled her towards the door. “Come on, Helena.”

“Apples,” Helena muttered, looking bewildered.

x

They flew to Chicago, and then to New York. From New York it was a direct flight, and Pete had fallen asleep almost instantly when they hit the third leg of their journey. He had claimed the aisle seat ‘to better flirt with the stewardess’ but Myka had reminded him that he only had eyes for Kelly Hernandez and that she probably would not appreciate him flirting with other women – even if he and Kelly were not dating, as of yet.

Helena had filled them in on the short flight to Chicago about Warehouse Two. There wasn’t really much to say, just that it had been lost and that Helena had made it a project of hers while at Warehouse Twelve, to try and locate it. She had the past one hundred or so years trapped in her own mind to think about it.

“Myka,” Helena began as the Atlantic flew underneath them and Pete snored quietly next to them. Her eyes were downcast and almost fearful and she spoke, drawing Myka’s attention and refusing to let it go. “This was my end of the bargain, their end will come later.”

“What is it?” Myka asked. She was not sure that she wanted to know, what could the Regents possibly give Helena that their little family could not?

Helena sighed, her fingers twining with Myka’s, “I asked for help.” She didn’t look at Myka, eyes resolutely set ahead of her. “Help with healing. When I woke up from being bronzed and James MacPherson told me the year, I wanted to kill myself. Christina had been dead for over one hundred years and the world I found that awaited me? It was a bleak place, full of death and war and senseless killing. I thought society would have improved in the interim.”

“No, people just got more efficient at killing each other,” Myka muttered darkly. She had read Helena’s books, wrote essays about them in school. She knew that they had been cautionary tales about the nature of society and how it must change for the better or else all would be lost. She knew that, and yet so few others had pulled that same information out of those fantastic tales.

She’d seen the movies, she’d wanted to die.

Myka had made Claudia promise to never show Helena them.

“I read about your Atom Bomb,” Helena explained, “And my heart broke for the people of Japan, for those who had to do the deed and live with themselves afterwards. I thought I understood war – I did not. Nothing could possibly compare. I was trapped in this cycle of confusion and fear at what I was discovering, and then I read a fascinating medical journal called _Psychology Today._ When I read that I realized that the field of medicine had advanced so far that there was help for people like me. That not everything about the future was bad.” She turned then, her eyes shining with something that Myka could not place. “At Warehouse Two, Myka, there is one half of an artifact so powerful that the last time it was used, only six thousand humans survived.”

“Yes, it’s called the Minoan Trident, that was what the warehouse was built for in the first place,” Myka had read that in the manual, it had been lost for centuries. Split in two to better protect the world from it, Myka could not imagine the power such an artifact could hold. She didn’t understand what Helena was telling her.

“I found the other half in 1899,” Helena confessed. “In Marseilles, buried in a fisherman’s tomb.”

Myka’s breath caught. She had found one half? But why? What could she possibly have wanted with it? How had Helena even tracked it down?

She knew the answer to that. Helena’s brain was gifted with the unrelenting logic that allowed her to parse together solutions to the most complex problems and the most sparse of variables. To be trapped with only one problem for one hundred years was as sure a way as Myka could think of to solve a particularly vexing problem.

Myka opened her mouth to reply, but Helena shook her head, Pete gave a particularly impressive snore, and Myka had to cover her mouth to keep from sniggering at him. This was a serious conversation, Pete snoring had very little to do with it, thus far.

“I gave it to Adwin Kosan upon his agreeing to give me the help I sought – a mind healer – and not one as full of strange theories of sexual deviancy as Mr. Freud; I gave it up because I met you. I met you and I realized that I did not feel particularly inclined to destroy the world anymore.” Myka knew that Helena was not talking about a psychologist; there were at least three that she knew of practicing in Univille. No this was probably someone with skills like Pete, someone with a gift who could truly help Helena to root out the madness that had so claimed her and quash it for eternity. Helena needed help beyond what a regular human could provide, Myka just hoped that such a being actually existed. Pete’s vibes seemed to point towards that existence, and Myka felt heartened by that.

To say that she had given up her plans for Myka… It wasn’t fair. Myka did not want to know about how her lover had wanted to destroy everything about this place that Myka held dear, she did not want to know that Helena had truly hated it here.

There must be some good.

Helena’s fingers closed around Myka’s outstretched hand, squeezing gently, pulling Myka’s focus back to the present and not her own terrified and racing thoughts. “You were a genuinely good person unconnected to the warehouse – I should have known that they’d pull you in, they always get the best, after all.”

“Helena… I…” She didn’t know what to say. She wanted to tell Helena that she should have said that she was hurting, that she needed help. Myka didn’t know how to help her when they were on an airplane heading towards a goddamn apple tree and Helena might not be strong enough to resist the temptation.

Pete gave a snort and his head rolled onto Helena’s shoulder, head nestling into the crook of her neck as Myka watched, amazing as Helena did not react for the long drawn out moments before her two fingers pinching Pete harshly on the leg caused him to start. He blinked at her, sleepily mumbling an apology before adjusting himself to be off to the other side of the cramped coach chair.

The kid behind Myka kicked her seat and she opened her mouth to again try and reply to Helena.

Helena’s warm, gentle finger lay across her lips, “No, let me finish, this is my confession of sin. You can be through with me or grant me absolution when I am finished.” There was so much hurt there, flickers of the madness that Helena spoke of.

Myka had no idea how to make it better.

The words tumbled out of her mouth against Helena’s finger, she couldn’t help herself. The fierceness of her devotion _had_ to translate into something that could pull Helena back from the black. From the edge of space and the nothingness that came after, the Bronze would not claim this woman, not now. “I could never be through with you, I love you.”

There was a smile on Helena’s lips, and the manic expression half-way vanished as she pulled her finger away to cup Myka’s cheek. Myka cast a fearful glance around the cabin, knowing that they were not going to the most progressive of areas. No one on the plane seemed to mind, however, and she exhaled, leaning into the touch ever so slightly. “And I you, my sweet Myka.”

The sincerity in Helena’s words was unmistakable. And when she sighed and let her hand drop to rest against Myka’s thigh, there was a warmth that Myka welcomed. It kept her tethered to the present, away from scared thoughts. She feared the unknown as everyone should – she feared what Helena embraced.

Helena’s voice broke, just a little hiccup as she spoke. “When this is over, I will have to go away. To spend time ridding myself of whatever melancholy that pushed me to want to destroy the world in the first place.” She looked away, at the front the seatback in front of her, “I will not be able to see you.”

Myka had guessed that much. The sort of help that the regents could offer was not a nine-to-five sort of ordeal. It would be hard, but she really had no choice but to accept it, Helena _had_ to be well. “If it helps you to heal, that’s alright,” Myka said simply.

A harsh bark of laughter escaped Helena’s lips, and Myka gave her an alarmed look before Helena waved it off. “I do not know what I have done in this life to deserve you, Myka Bering. You are too good. Parting from you will be challenging.”

They shared a smile, and Helena added earnestly, “Promise me you will not do anything foolish like return to your parent’s home. That place is far too toxic.”

Didn’t she know it, Myka thought darkly. She felt so out of control then, and it was only just starting to return now. She took it where she could get it, held it close, and was forever grateful that Helena seemed alright with playing along. “I promise.” She whispered reverently.

Myka’s face turned dark as she added, “Why didn’t you say anything?” She met Helena’s eyes and added, “I thought that I told you that you could say anything to me.”

Helena shrugged, her tone nonchalant. “For fear that you would spurn my advances if you knew how warped my mind is.” There was a beat, and then Helena added, “I was driven quite mad in the bronze.”

Myka knew this. It had been obvious from the beginning. Her mind was broken and fractured, and there was nothing that Myka could have done to fix it. “I could have helped you,” Myka raised her hand to touch the locket just barely peeking out from underneath the coat that Helena had liberated from one of the crates of her things that had been shipped in from Warehouse 12. The metal was warm under her fingers, and Myka fingered it gently, reverently. “The fact that you are even functioning astounds me, Helena.” Myka forced her lips upwards into a small and tight smile. “You have a brilliant mind, and a beautiful soul.”

“I very much doubt that my soul is anything other than damned.” Helena said dismissively, her hand closing around Myka’s and the locket, lingering there, not letting Myka pull her hand free. The intensity that Myka was used to had returned to her eyes and Myka wondered if the moment of clarity had passed and Helena had sunk back into madness, or the opposite.

Time would tell, and her Tesla was fully charged.

“If you’re damned then I am so screwed,” Myka laughed, fingers brushing against Helena’s cheek. “We’ll make it work.”

x

Myka had never been to Cairo, and yet for some bizarre reason, Pete had. He had a map, though, and was playing the part of a tourist well. Helena, for her part, just looked anxious. When Pete asked what was eating her, Helena had informed him that the last time she had been to Egypt, she’d been banned from the country by the colonial government for grave robbing.

Apparently there was an artifact or something.

Pete had then loudly made a note that they were going to go home and watch _Raiders of the Lost Ark_ when this was done and over with before steering them down a side street to where all three of the Regent’s team of Egyptologists had ended up dead. They were to meet their contact there, apparently.

Helena’s hand was on the small of her back most of the passage down the dark and dirty side street. Buildings crowded against the street, as huge throngs of businessmen and young people cut their way between the two main thoroughfares that the side street connected. Myka had to grab hold of the back of Pete’s shirt to keep up with him and not lose him in the mob.

They turned down an alleyway and Pete stopped in front of man wide-brimmed had pulled down low over his face and the pinkish pages of _The Financial Times_ obscuring much of his body.

“Strange paper to be reading here,” Pete commented, sitting down next to the man.

“You are not going to try and kill me again, are you, Agent Lattimer?” The clipped and cultured voice of Benedict Valda cut across the general hubbub of the coffee shop like a knife and Myka winced a little at the hint of anger that was just barely hidden beneath the polite question.

Pete gave a shrug and motioned for them to all sit down as well. Myka glanced at Helena, who was eyeing Valda with the same expressing she had given Mr. Kosan back at the Warehouse, and then sat down. “It is good to see you again, Mr. Valda.”

“You as well, Agent Bering,” Valda inclined his head, “Agent Wells. I understand your knowledge of this place may be greater than my own.”

“I very much doubt that,” Helena said quietly, sitting down as well.

She was correct. Benedict Valda knew things about the second warehouse that even Helena, who had spent a great deal of time researching the place, had no idea about. He shared the information begrudgingly, Myka absorbing it over a cup of the strong Egyptian tea that Valda had purchased for them before they’d arrived. The place sounded fascinating, deadly, and above all else, the perfect place for something to go horribly, awfully wrong.

Valda had procured a Jeep for them, and as night fell, they drove north and out of the city. The roads here were dangerous. Myka knew of the unrest that had taken the country in recent months, about how being foreigners dressed to go tomb raiding was probably not the wisest idea they’d ever had, but the circumstances were dire.

Mrs. Frederic would die and the warehouse would be in complete disarray if they could not stop this warehouse from trying to force it’s guardianship onto her as well. Valda seemed to think that there was hope, should Mrs. Frederic pass away, but Myka didn’t dare ask what. She had visions of some life-prolonging artifact that kept people alive after they were supposed to die and that was all that she wanted to hear on that matter.

Pete sat in the front seat with Valda, chatting about the potential dangers they might encounter, Myka and Helena were relegated to the hard bench of a bad seat. They jostled into each other, Helena’s hand finding Myka’s in the darkness of the growing night. She squeezed, and Myka rested her head on Helena’s shoulder, trying to ignore that Helena was trembling.

They made camp near the abandoned encampment of the Egyptologists that the regents had sent to look into the second warehouse. Myka helped carry their gear and she and Pete quickly had the tent pitched and a fire growing. Helena was standing off to one side, conversing with Valda about something that she had noticed upon arriving. They both looked worried, but Valda’s face was resolute.

“Come what may,” He muttered, squatting down next to the camp fire and holding his hands in front of it to warm them. “I am prepared.”

Helena gave him a panicked look and shook her head violently, but said nothing.

That night no one got much sleep.

“Do you think that Christina would be proud of me, finding this place?” Helena asked as Pete’s quiet snores filled the tent. Myka was curled next to her, their sleeping bags zipped together against the desert chill. Helena’s fingers were playing with Myka’s hair, pulling a curl out and watching as it bounced back into place in the low light that the moon cast through the mosquito net.

“I don’t know,” Myka confessed. “Did she know about it?”

“I told her stories,” Helena made a shrugging motion, her shoulders curling up into Myka’s cheek before falling back down. “She was so taken with the idea of Egypt. I promised that she could come with me when I found this place.”

Myka couldn’t think of anything to say, so she said nothing at all, holding Helena close as the older woman cried.

Dawn could not come soon enough.

x

Warehouse Two was booby-trapped. Myka sighed, wondering if they’d run into any Nazis since this whole thing was playing out like an _Indiana Jones_ movie. It was hot in the pyramid like structure, the heat and dead air amplifying and causing Myka’s skin to feel slick despite the dryness of the day. They could easily die in here from dehydration alone, not to mention whatever it was with these trials.

Their Farnsworths were not working, the building, or the warehouse itself, must have blocked the signal. Valda had seemed a little shocked, and Myka had seen how the corner of Helena’s eye had started to twitch, causing them to look wide and fearful. This was bad, they couldn’t be down here with no lines of communication to Artie and Claudia. They didn’t know how much time they had, and Myka wasn’t even sure she could trust her watch to tell her exactly how long they’d been traversing these corridors – waiting to encounter their first trial.

The first one Pete had solved. Something about pancakes and Myka was so sure that they were going to get squished to death, but she did as Pete said because sometimes he was brilliant and he’d had a feeling. Myka knew better than to doubt Pete’s feelings.

So she and Helena and Valda moved the pieces of rock in the sequence that he’d mandated and everything had worked out peachy. Myka was pretty sure she’d lost a few years of her life in fright, but that was a fairly common occurrence at the Warehouse. She’d had to pretend to be a model once upon a time and that had taken literal years off of her life.

God _that_ had been awful.

The moved through the room quickly after that. There were no such traps waiting for them until their next dead end, a hallway leading seemingly into blackness and writing on the wall that seemed to imply that walking was not an option.

Helena’s grappler came in handy then, and the way across came simply. Her belt came off and Pete swallowed as Myka’s pants sagged low on her hips – Myka rolled her eyes at him and told him that if they fell off he was going to be the one going to get them.

These were comfortable, practical pants. Helena had chosen to wear shorts in some sort of strange and obviously misguided homage to Lara Croft. Pete had enjoyed it and Claudia had busted out into a fit of laughter when they’d called just before going in. Apparently, Claudia had not thought that Helena would have taken her suggestion seriously.

Myka was going to have to have a talk with that girl if they survived this place.

Helena caught her at the other end, and Myka hurriedly belted her pants, watching as Helena’s eyes seemed to dart about the room, fearful, agitated. She reached out her hand, resting it on Helena’s arm, trying to calm her down.

“I cannot,” Helena muttered, hand clenched into a fist.

Myka could not say more, as Pete was barreling towards them, something gold and glittery around his neck. His eyes were wide, and he turned back as soon as he landed, belt falling uselessly to the ground.

“You have to come too!” He shouted. Myka blinked, the key around Pete’s neck belonged to Valda – he said that it was the only way to turn off the Warehouse’s defense mechanism.

Why had he given it to Pete?

Valda was half-way across the rope when his hand slipped and Myka was already on her knees, picking up Pete’s belt, getting ready to go back and pull him to safety.

“No!” Helena shouted, grabbing Myka’s hand, holding her back as Valda fell into the flames. “I cannot lose you too.”

“But-!” Myka turned to Pete who shook his head.

“He said one of us had to die or the door would not open,” Pete muttered, hand clasped around the key at his neck. “He told me what to do.”

They had no choice, Myka realized, but to go forward.

x

You wake up and Christina is here, and your heart soars. The logical part of your mind knows that this is not real, that this _cannot_ be real, and you mourn that feeling. You hate it, loathe it with your very being, and yet you embrace the little girl in your arms with such joy and happiness that you can barely think of the fact that is not real.

Your mind is playing tricks on you again.

You’re mad, you’ve _been_ mad for months now. Mad as the Hatter since you woke up and since James MacPherson told you that your plan had worked and the Minoan Trident was still among your possessions. That he had found your notes and liked the way you thought.

He was a disgusting man and you hated him. He did not understand the _why_ of wanting to destroy the world, but only the _how_. He had said things, whispered in your ear, the adder’s own words, your own undoing.

You held the razor to your wrist and couldn’t bring yourself to do it – not without seeing Christina’s face one last time. The red that welled up there was just enough to remind you that you were alive. You did it again and again, daring yourself to go through with it despite your want to see Christina again, until James MacPherson found you and hauled you bodily to your feet. He shouted, you cried, you shouted back, he promised you your revenge.

And now here she is, and you feel as though you could die happy.

But lo - something is missing, you don’t know who or what, but something isn’t there that needs to be there.

You hate it.

Christina kisses your cheeks and tells you about her day. It is so _mundane_ that you want to scream. There are tea parties with her dolls and she’s learning how to do needlework and her letters. She’s too young, she should be in school.

You remember that this isn’t the present, that this is the past. Her governess wouldn’t start actually teaching her the things you want Christina to know until next year at the earliest. And she will never be allowed to go to school for science, the way you want her to.

Myka would adore her.

Myka.

But then if this is what your heart wants most, where is Myka? Surely she should have a part in this.

You blink, Christina smiling up at you from where you have her locked in your arms. You can feel hands pulling on your shoulders, shaking you, trying to roust you from slumber.

You were not strong enough to throw off the illusion, too insane to realize that it was just that. You let Myka rescue you so that you may live another day for Christina’s memory.

You let Myka rescue you so that you may do the deed you set about weeks ago with the razor and the crying and the hotel bathroom you shared with James MacPherson. No one will take your life but you, you live only for yourself.

(And Myka.)

Mostly for Myka.

“It’s a trick,” Myka says, pulling you close, holding you steady as you sob. You do not think that the regents will be able to help you. Your mind is too far gone, you want only to die, to perish here – Benedict Valda did not deserve the death at the second trial. You could have gone in his stead; you would have welcomed that oblivion.

You hate that you can’t make Myka see how easy it would be for you to take the staff that is sure to lie beyond the door and use it to end the world. Everyone would be dead then.

And you would never have to walk out of the warehouse smelling apples again.


	13. Redemption - Or, Asking for Help

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein there are magic carpets and pumpkin pie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'ed by the lovely Spockette.

The door to the second warehouse opened silently, and Myka swallowed, following Pete and Helena through it, casting a wary glance at the floor that had just attempted to swallow them whole. She didn’t know what Helena had seen, but her own vision had been so criminally untrue that she did not think that her heart truly knew what it desired at the present. That was why it showed her father being loving and kind, it had to be.

Her father did not love her.

Myka’s fist clenched.

Control, above all other things. Control what you can so that the rest doesn’t seem so bad. Control your emotions.

The antechamber gave way to the actual warehouse floor, and Myka’s jaw dropped. She understood, then, the necessity of the warehouse, eleven generations later, having to be so huge. The place stretched on for what seemed like miles, sand dusting the floor, darkness and gloom giving way to shelves upon shelves of objects.

There was a vat of oil of some sort just off to the left of the entrance, and Myka jabbed her torch into it, watching as fire and light shot down the staircase and out onto Warehouse Two’s floor, bathing it in a warm light. Pete had scurried off to stare at something out in the gloom, his jaw slightly open.

Myka turned and could see it too, Helena’s hand on her shoulder, gripping tightly. There were no words; Myka knew that it was a gesture out of fear and little else. She swallowed, and let the vision of it take her.

A large, glowing ball of energy, not unlike the ones that occasionally zipped around Warehouse 13, was hovering at the center of the warehouse floor. Angry bolts of energy ricocheted off of it and onto the artifact lined shelves and then back to the ball. Myka watched it seem to grow larger, just as they sat there, and her hand wrapped tightly around the one that Helena had placed on her shoulder. “Oh shit…” Pete breathed, his hand clenched around the key that Valda had given him. “They didn’t use neutralizer back then did they?”

Helena’s head jerked and she shook her head to the negative, “It is an entirely new and very wonderful invention, we did not have it at Warehouse 12.” She turned to Myka, eyes wild, unfocused. She was so undone, so out of character, Myka didn’t know what to make of it. “There must be a way of calming that, though, in Warehouse 12 there was a switch on the floor proper, for when it got too out of hand. I’m going to go down there and look for one.”

This had played out in Myka’s mind in her sleepless night last night. Helena had gone down there, and then all had been lost, because she had gone alone.

Maybe Myka did sleep last night, because that had felt like a nightmare.

“Pete, do you think that you can figure out how to turn it off on this end?” Myka asked, but Pete was already inspecting a windowpane and muttering to himself about a water bearer. She shrugged, and took Helena’s hand. “Let’s go Indy,” she said quietly.

“Indy?” Helena asked with a raised eyebrow.

She grinned, “When we return, you are _so_ watching that movie.”

Helena gave Myka a long look, but pulled her down the stairs and onto the warehouse floor like a child being allowed to go hog wild for the first time in forever. Her eyes were wide and her grin almost manic as she walked through the shelves, looking at the objects that Myka knew had inspired more than a few myths and stories that still persisted to this day.

She saw scrolls, original tablets that she didn’t dare question the origins of. Hanging from a shelf high above their heads, Myka caught sight of a golden fleece, and she couldn’t help herself. The idea that they were passing under what the Argonauts had sought so casually was astounding to her. Her eyes trailed downwards, watching as the small objects gave way to larger, more bulky ones. A seemingly ever-green sprig of palm, a rolled up … carpet?

“Is that…” she asked quietly, pausing in front of the slow shelf and stooping to get a better look.

“Probably, yes,” Helena agreed, glancing at it with interest, before turning her attention to the ominously crackling ball of death just above them. “I do not know how it actually came into existence; however, Scheherazade was never exactly explicit when she told the stories.”

“Think it works?” She stepped forward, words on the edge of her tongue from the princess’ tale. Myka wanted to try it, wanted to see if it would work.

The sound of Helena’s hands clapping together gave Myka pause, and she turned to look over her shoulder at Helena. The other woman was standing with her hands folded across her chest, scowling slightly at the glowing ball of energy hovering above their heads. “I would rather not find out, not in a place like this with Mrs. Frederic perilously close to ceding control of the Warehouse over to Claudia or Arthur, whoever is more convenient when her mind finally breaks.” Helena’s face turned dark, “It will probably be Claudia, she has a better disposition.”

Myka frowned, not fully comprehending what Helena was saying. She knew that the regents protected the warehouse, and that there was a defense system clearly in place, as _this_ warehouse’s system was clearly on the fritz, but to… Claudia…

“They wouldn’t…” She breathed, turning to fully face Helena. “There is no way that they would do that knowingly.”

Helena gave an elaborate shrug, “The guardian makes the decisions in the best interest of the warehouse. It is their sworn duty, and if Mrs. Frederic is compromised, she will pass that mantle on because that is what is done.”

“But Claudia…”

“Best avoid thinking about it, Myka. Let’s turn this off so that there is no cause for worry,” Helena held out a dirt covered hand to Myka, who took it with her one equally filthy one. There was a moment there, of silent appreciation on both of their parts, that they had each other, that Pete wasn’t there to make some immature comment, that they were still alive. Helena closed her eyes, lips silently moving in words that Myka did not recognize. Pete would have, stupid cheating bastard who could read lips that he was, “I have an idea where the switch might be,” Helena said, pulling Myka down a corridor and into a side room.

“What is this place?” Myka asked, looking around in awe.

The walls were filled with weapons of very shape and size imaginable. Myka’s eyes widened as she took in the swords and spears and daggers that lined the walls at even intervals. Shields decorated walls, emblems of whole civilizations that Myka had studied in school. She paused in front of a round shield, staring at it, trying to imagine it on the arm of a Spartan warrior. Perhaps Menelaus himself? But no, they usually identified him as Mycenaean in the stories.

“Warehouse Twelve’s emergency switches were always in the armory,” Helena muttered, pulling a shield forward off its place on the wall and coughing as she got covered in dust for her efforts. “It was known that in times of a direct attack on the warehouse that it was best to barricade one’s self with the most weapons possible to fend off intruders.” She tried another shield and wisely leaned back to avoid the falling dust. “I think all the warehouses have had a room like this, somewhere.”

“Very sensible, Warehouses,” Myka muttered, crossing to the other side of the room and began to push things aside, looking for something that could possibly resemble a switch. After a face full of dust, she got the rhythm of stepping back soon enough so as not to temporarily kill herself with whatever ancient mold was lurking deep within the bowels of this place.

They worked at a feverish pace, not knowing how much time they had, not knowing if Pete had succeeded on his end. Myka cast fearful glances over her shoulder at Helena whenever she thought she could get away with it. She could see that Helena was agitated, could see her fear and the barely-hidden madness behind her eyes. It scared Myka, scared her that she couldn’t think of a way to make it better.

“It can’t be that simple…” Helena’s voice filled the room, and Myka turned to see Helena standing in front of a rack of staves. She reached out, hesitating for just a moment, her fingers out stretched, before grasping one and pulling to forward in a way that it didn’t look like it should have moved in the first place and then they heard the sound of quickly running feet and Pete’s voice shouting that he’d solved it.

“Guess we were too slow,” Myka grinned at Helena, who had yet to let go of the staff in her hand.

“This is it, Myka,” She breathed, pulling it from the rack and swinging it experimentally in a loose figure eight. “This is the final piece of my puzzle.”

Oh.

Oh no.

This could not happen; she would not let this happen. Myka’s hand clenched into a fist and she tried to think about how best to get the staff away from Helena. She wasn’t even sure what Helena was doing with it, other than showing it to her. She wasn’t sure of much of anything right now, just that Helena needed to be as _far away_ from that goddamn stick as humanly possible. Now.

Myka crossed to Helena, fingers closing around Helena’s hands, pulling at her fingers – trying to get her to let go. “Leave it then,” she hissed, her voice tinged with a well of emotions she did not know she had within her. There was still authority there; she was technically still in control. She would not let Helena fall, cave to her desires now – not now, when they’d succeeded and Mrs. Frederic would be alright and the Warehouse would remain stable. “I won’t let you go through with it.”

A laugh that sounded almost like a sob escaped Helena’s lips and the staff that was the body of one of the most powerful weapons in the ancient world fell to the dusty floor of Warehouse Two. Myka took Helena by the arm and lead her away from the temptation of the apple tree, out into the main chamber, shouting for Pete.

When he found them, Helena had calmed, her hands were still shaking, but her face was clear of any of the lost expression that was on her face before, with that staff in her hands. Myka watched her carefully, as Pete slung his arms over both their shoulders and announced that the Farnsworth was working again.

Artie was on his way to meet them, apparently. Or had been, several hours ago. He might even be outside, for all they knew.

Myka wondered how much time they had spent down in this place. Her watch had stopped working.

“And Claudia?” Helena asked after shifting and realizing that Pete was not going to relinquish his hold on either of them. She scowled at him and began to squirm. “Is she still…” She trailed off, her face fearful.

Pete shrugged, drawing them in closer to him. Myka punched him in the shoulder, trying to get him to let go. “She said that it got a little hinky – something about taking over the Warehouse, no idea what that’s about? But the Doc got that sorted out and they’re all good. Mrs. F has a killer headache apparently, ate about half a bottle of Advil.”

Myka snorted and Helena laughed. It felt good. Really good. The cathartic moment after the high stress and high intensity of the past few minutes where all the tension was released in one easy moment. Pete let them go and the both lingered, their bodies collapsing onto the dusty floor of this forgotten trove of knowledge and information. Myka wanted to explore, but more importantly, she wanted to get the hell out of here so that Helena would not be tempted again.

“So, Indy, how do we get out of this place?” Pete asked after a moment of staring up at the apex of the ceiling, far above their heads. “I’m not going back the way we came in, no way in hell.”

“Haven’t the slightest,” Helena said from her place somewhere to Myka’s left. Myka, privately, thought it was hilarious that both she and Pete had both called Helena after Indiana Jones. She couldn’t figure out why, when Helena was far more of a Lara Croft.

“Well shit,” Myka said, exhaling loudly and sitting up. Her entire back was covered in dust and sand and she didn’t particularly care. They were all dirty and covered in sweat and grime and probably would need to go through a detox and full fungal workup before being allowed back to work. _Work…_ the thought hit Myka like a ton of bricks and she snapped her fingers and turned to Pete. “Don’t warehouses have back doors?”

Pete sat up, his face pulling downward in concentration, finger poised as if to make a ground pronouncement. He waved it in front of him, thinking hard, once, twice. “Yes,” he said gravely, expression far too serious, “I believe they do.”

Helena gave a most uncharacteristic snort and Myka scooted closer to her to lean over and kiss her on the cheek. “We’ll get out of here and it will be better,” she whispered, eyes full of promise.

“The impulse remains,” Helena shook her head. “I must find help for this… compulsion.”

“Can we get out of here first?” Pete asked, wiggling his eyebrows at the pair of them. “I know that there’s personal drama going and all, but I really, really want to go home and get out of this creepy place.”

“Well duh, Pete, we all do.” Myka said shortly. She stood, offered Helena her hand and pulled her girlfriend to her feet.

“I think,” Helena glanced upwards once again, “Myka… that we will need to test your theory about that magic carpet after all.” She raised her hand, pointing at the ceiling where a small hatch with a naval-style latch on it was clearly visible.

“Dude there’s a magic carpet in here?!” Pete’s eyes seemed to widen in the dim light with a sort of childlike glee that had no business being on a thirty-plus year old man’s face. He turned to glance up at the ceiling, “And who in their right mind puts a door all the goddamn way up there?” And then snapped his fingers, “Oh, _that’s_ why we’d need a magic carpet…”

“Sometimes I wonder how he managed to pass the examinations to get into the American secret service.” Helena commented airily, glancing over at Myka.

“Funny, I wonder the same thing every day,” she replied in the same tone, completely ignoring Pete as he looked mock-hurt and shouted ‘hey’ at the pair of them.

They found the magic carpet where they’d first seen it. It wasn’t like in the movie _Aladdin_ , where the carpet was sentient and totally supposed to be one of those mascot characters that Myka hated so much. To be completely honest, Myka found that story to be problematic in many other ways, but this was neither the here nor the there of this particular conversation. No; this was just an ordinary carpet that seemed capable of extra-ordinary things. Helena squinted at the faded placard next to it.

“Well,” she said after a moment, “I’m not entirely sure that my translation is accurate, but I think that this is a means we can use to convey ourselves up to that hatch.” Helena squinted at the placard again. “Or burn in what appears to be the fires of Hades.”

Myka swallowed whatever doubts she had left about Helena’s sanity. This was not the time or the place for doubts, there was only do, no try. She would have to tell the Regents, when she saw one of them next, that her lover needed more help than she was able to provide. Helena was not a lost cause, she just needed help. The temptation was too great.

She hated it.

Helena was so strong, so true and so full of pride that it seemed utterly unfair to have her be so crippled by this, this maggot in her mind. The world was not at fault, she had told Myka once, the debt had been paid tenfold, and yet she still wanted revenge.

 _Had she gotten the help back then…_ Myka shook her head, pushing the thought out of her mind. Had Helena gotten the help that she had needed then, she would have never been bronzed, and Myka would never have met her.

They would have never fallen in love.

 _Damn the bronzer and stupid nineteenth century primitive medicine,_ Myka thought bitterly. “I trust you,” She said, her voice never wavering. “You know the words, as do I.”

Helena nodded, and kicked the rug out of its roll and onto the floor. Her voice was slow, accented and cultured, as she spoke the first lines of the tale of the tale of Prince Housain. It sounded strange, hearing Helena speak a language other than English, but her Arabic – Myka supposed that this was actually Persian – was flawless. Pete’s jaw dropped as Helena said the word that made the carpet fly, and it leapt into the air, hovering at about knee height.

“Well, I guess no fiery death for us,” Pete said, tentatively poking the carpet with his foot. When it seemed solid, he stepped up and onto it. “This is, by far, the weirdest thing that’s happened to me today.”

Myka wished that she could say the same.

They all settled on the carpet and Helena had to pause for a moment to remember the correct word for up, not forward, before they began to rise up and over the second warehouse’s floor.

As the hatch in the roof loomed closer, Myka leaned into Helena, “When will they come?” She asked, their fingers locking together as Helena rested her head on Myka’s shoulder.

“I don’t know.”

“Before Christmas?” Myka asked. She didn’t dare hope for a time like that together with Helena before she had to go away. It didn’t seem likely, or fair.

“You could always ask to come back,” Pete said, he was staring at the corner of the wavering carpet, facing away from them. “HG, I know that you’re going to need whatever it is that the regents decided to give you…”

“I wasn’t aware you were listening to that conversation, Agent Lattimer,” Helena said icily, her hand growing hot in Myka’s.

Pete turned and glanced at them both over his shoulder. “You’re good people, HG, I don’t want to lose you just because of some pesky want to destroy the world.” He grinned at her. “And you pinched me on the plane, I was plotting my revenge and then you got all serious business on Myka there.”

Myka’s free hand had already formed into a fist, “That conversation was _private,_ Pete!” She punched him in the shoulder, the carpet swayed, they all lunged towards the middle and each other.

“I’m serious, HG, they’d let you come back for Christmas – Thanksgiving, too, if it means that much to you.” Pete said, detangling himself from the pair of them and playfully shoving at Myka. “You’re good for Mykes, you’re good for us all. Claudia adores you and I’ve yet to completely corrupt you.”

Helena sniffed and Myka shook her head, “You are very sweet, Peter, thank you.”

Pete stood and Helena muttered the halt command at the carpet, which hovered dutifully where it rested. He grasped the handle of the hatch and tugged. It wouldn’t budge, he tried the other way, muttering something about ‘lefty Lucy’ and Egypt doing everything else ass-backwards. It didn’t budge, and Pete fell back onto the carpet, defeated. “Don’t think there’s some sort of prehistoric blowtorch down there do you?” He asked with a dismissive glance towards the floor.

“Probably not,” Myka retorted.

This was beyond bad.

The Farnsworth shoved down the back of Helena’s pants began to ring. She pulled it out, Myka leaning in to see her open it to reveal Artie’s face, covered in sweat and looking rather sunburnt (if you could trust a black and white image).

“Are you three alright?” He demanded, leaning in close to the Farnsworth. Pete shifted and soon all three of their heads were pressed closely into the frame of the image. Myka wrinkled her nose; Pete was starting to smell a bit. They were all sweaty and gross.

“We’re fine,” Myka promised. She was supposed to be the sensible one, the one who would report the facts when Pete was too busy being five and Helena was lost in her own mile-a-minute thoughts. “We’re trying to get out the backdoor, but the hatch is stuck.”

“Leave that to me,” Artie said and the connection was abruptly cut off.

They looked at each other and then at the hatch, and Helena barked the word ‘drop’ in Persian so fast that they all shrieked as the carpet fell several feet away from the hatch before hovering once again.

A small sliver of light peeked through the hatch and then it opened completely. Myka squinted into the sunlight as Artie’s hat and head was silhouetted against the blinding desert sun. He peered down at them. “Carpet of Tangu? Nice to know where that is.”

Myka had never been happier to see anyone in her life.

x

After they returned home, a waiting game began. Myka let Helena occupy as much of her time as was humanly possible, she didn’t want her to go, and they clung to each other at night. Every night could be their last, the waiting was impossible.

Myka felt like she would go mad, drunk on over-high emotions, on sex, on Helena herself. The beautiful, broken woman she’d fallen hopelessly in love with.

And then it was the Wednesday before Thanksgiving and Leena asked Myka if she wanted to help cook. No one had families to go home to, not really. Pete’s mother was off with his sister visiting relatives and Pete didn’t feel like it was right to try and include himself in plans made without him in mind. (Myka thought it was a flimsy excuse, but she did not question her partner.) Claudia’s brother was going to come though, Joshua. Myka had never met him, but he sounded nice enough.

“I’ve never had an American Thanksgiving before,” Helena pointed out to Myka as they followed Leena around the grocery section of the Super Walmart three towns over from Univille. The local store had run out of a lot of the traditional Thanksgiving fixings due to some trouble with their supplier, and it was easier to drive half an hour though the snowy countryside to a slightly more populated area of the deserted state of South Dakota than it was to attempt to figure out when said supplier would come in. And so, they were stuck at Walmart on one of the busiest shopping days of the year. “Canadian? Yes, I was never in America at this time of year.”

“Why not?” Myka asked as they steered the cart around a small mob of children running in the opposite direction.

“I find the idea of drowning, frozen in the ocean, quite unpleasant,” Helena stated matter-of-factly. For a woman who had had no qualms with jumping off buildings and through windows and any number of other high risk activities that Myka had seen her do in the past few weeks, fear of drowning in a freezing ocean seemed almost… mundane. “And it appears that had I stayed out of the Bronze a bit longer, my worst fears would have been realized.”

“They made a movie about it, if you ever want to watch three hours of teenage angst and a boat sinking,” Myka said. She sighed quietly. “I adored it when it came out. I was in high school, and it just seemed so _romantic_.”

“I think I shall take your word for it,” Helena commented dryly, wrinkling her nose at the squash that Leena was inspecting. “This place is hellish,” she added, glancing around.

“No one likes coming to Walmart,” Myka reiterated what Claudia and Pete had both said when they offered them a chance to come along.

Helena had wanted to come, though, and Myka was not going to deny her anything. Every moment could be their last for a very long time. Even Artie seemed to understand that, sending them off down aisles of the warehouse together, setting them at inventory to take their minds off things. He still obviously did not trust Helena, but when Myka had confessed to him what she had done – or rather not done – at Warehouse Two, he seemed to warm to her considerably more than he had before.

Artie had promised that he’d speak to Mrs. Frederic, who had been conspicuously absent the past few days since their return, sweaty, dirty, and emotionally battered, from Egypt. Myka supposed that she was grateful, for the time. She hated the waiting, though.

They wandered the aisles after Leena, picking up a few household items that they both needed, Helena had had a question about toothpaste that Myka could not begin to answer. Still, the line to check out was long and Leena was telling them both about how her grandmother had this secret recipe for turkey and how she was going to try it when she put the thing in the oven tomorrow morning.

“We haven’t had a real Thanksgiving at the B&B in quite some time,” she confessed as they carried the bags of groceries out across the mammoth parking lot and Myka’s car. “It was just Artie for _years,_ ” Leena wrinkled her nose, “And you know how he can get.”

They all shared a look.

The idea of spending a holiday with just a grumpy old man sounded… rather unappealing, to put it politely.

Helena’s hand rested on top of Myka’s as she shifted the car into gear, warm and comforting the entire drive home.

After putting the groceries away and promising to come downstairs to help get some things prepared later on that evening, Myka followed Helena up the stairs to the room that they really were not supposed to be sharing. Helena stood in the middle of the room, fingers at the locket on her neck. Her face was drawn and pensive, her body seeming to hunch in upon itself. It was a strange image.

“Are you okay?” Myka asked, stepping forward, pushing the door shut behind her. It closed with a resolute click and Helena reached up, fiddling with the clasp on her necklace, pulling it down.

“Leena showed me, when you went to go and get the eggs,” from the depths of her pocket, Helena produced an envelope. It came from one of those photo printers that sometimes dotted grocery stores. You put your camera memory in, and it’d print pictures for you instantly. It hadn’t taken Myka that long to get the eggs. “I wanted you to help me.”

The envelope contained a picture that Myka had taken with Helena’s phone of them both together on a field assignment several weeks ago. They were sitting on a beach just outside of Miami, the sun setting behind them. The camera angle wasn’t the most flattering, but the way that they seemed to curl into each other, and how they were both _smiling_ (it seemed so rare as of late) caught Myka’s eye. She grinned.

“That’s a nice picture,” she said.

Helena nodded, “I had wanted to put it into this, with Christina… to remind me of what tethers me to this time as well.” She looked down at the floor, hand holding the picture falling to her side. “You mean so much more to me than you know, Myka.”

Myka thought that she did know, and her hands found Helena’s, and she pulled the pair of them over to her desk, crammed in the corner under several books left lying open. Papers of Helena’s littered the surface, and Myka pulled open a drawer and rummaged until she found a pair of child’s safety scissors that she was pretty sure she’d had in her possession since elementary school. She passed them wordlessly to Helena, who took them and held them in her palm.

“This is the strangest thing,” Helena said, looking down at the scissors, “are these for children?”

“I’ve had them for a while,” Myka shrugged. When Helena pulled her hair away from her neck, Myka helped her to undo the clasp and held the locket as Helena cut the picture. The entire process was silent, Myka watching as Helena’s fingertips lingered over Christina’s young face, staring longingly at the little girl she would never see again.

“I saw her,” Helena whispered, “The third trial, I saw Christina.”

Myka shifted, pulling Helena close to her. She couldn’t think of anything to say, it seemed wiser to see what Helena would say. She was there to listen. She had told Helena that time and time again. There was very little else that she could say, honestly. Helena had to talk about her troubles, about what bothered her, or else it would never get better.

“The only thought that I had throughout that entire delusion was how strange it was that you were not there,” Helena confessed, closing the locket and clenching her fist around it. “Christina was there, but being with her was not what I desired most.” She closed her eyes. “All those years, trapped with only my thoughts… All I thought about was Christina and how I longed for revenge. I obsessed over it. How is it that I have known you for six months and you mean as much to me as she ever did?”

There were no words, there were never any words, the answer to that question would never come. Myka let her hands rest on Helena’s shoulders, holding on to her as though she was the only thing in the world. When Helena’s lips found her own, Myka did not resist. She let Helena take what she needed, contrary to her nature as it was. There were times when she couldn’t say anything, this was one of them.

The evening grew around them, the weak stream of sunlight that filtered through the partly drawn blinds playing across skin and hair. Myka was trying to find the way to express everything that she couldn’t in words, allowing Helena to realize that she was allowed to love more than one person, that she was not sullying Christina’s memory by being in love.

Their bodies danced, rocking against each other, Myka’s eyes closing as Helena brought her hands lower, pushing up and into her. Taking her to heights that Myka could barely even imagine. Every time they did this felt like the first, full of wonderment and so many other things that Myka could never quite find the words to describe. She’d read them, savored them, out of the mouths of men long-dead, but none of them ever truly seemed to do it justice.

“I can’t find the words,” She whispered, lips pressed against Helena’s pulse point. Her breathing was coming in short pants, desperately trying to steady herself, to keep herself grounded. To do this was so awe-inspiring. “To describe how I feel about you.”

Tired hands pulled at Myka’s chin, forcing her eyes upwards. She met Helena’s brown-eyed gaze evenly, watching as Helena seemed to wrestle with her own emotions.

“Don’t speak then,” Helena said, pulling Myka’s lips to her own.

No words came then, and Myka found that she truly did not need them, letting her mind relax enough to realize that the old dead men she so idolized never had felt a love like this.

And she was really, really okay with that.

x

It was strange, sitting around Leena’s dining room table, surrounded by family. Myka had had many Thanksgiving dinners in her life, many awkward and strained conversations that seemed to dance around the truth of things without ever discussing them openly. That was not the case, here, as Claudia and Pete quickly brought Joshua up to speed as to who Helena was. It was strange to see the smile of kinship on Joshua’s face, as he leaned in to quietly explain to Helena how he got trapped in time for ten years.

Helena, for her part, seemed most intrigued as to how he’d done it. Myka turned to Leena, passing her the basket of rolls and gave an elaborate shrug. “I think we’ve lost them,” she confessed with a smile.

Leena grinned back at her, “You both are so much happier than you were before, I’m glad for both of you.” She glanced over as Claudia began to participate in the discussion as well, “And I am so glad that I have no idea what they’re talking about.”

“It is really terrifying, they’re all too smart,” Pete agreed from across the table. “They’ll build a doomsday device-“

“Don’t give them any ideas!” Artie muttered around a mouthful of potatoes.

Myka glanced over at Helena, and then raised an eyebrow at Artie, “Who is to say that she hasn’t already?”

“There’d be a record of it…” Artie grumbled, before straightening and glancing frantically over to the couch, where he’d left his bag from work. “I should probably check that…”

They all laughed at that, and Pete threw a bit of roll at Myka across the table. She frowned at him, wondering why he was being so childish, but when he stuck out his tongue and wiggled his eyebrows, she knew what he was implying.

“So why didn’t you go home?” She asked. Pete hadn’t said much about what his mother was up to, but he’d implied that there had been something going on that he hadn’t wanted to talk about. The flimsy excuse of not wanting to intrude on the family time that his mother had already set up with an aunt or something really didn’t hold up under scrutiny. “I mean, you’ve _got_ a family that’d actually want to see you.”

Pete set down his fork, and bridged his fingers, face thoughtful. Myka swallowed, wondering if it really wasn’t her place to ask. She was grateful when Pete gave a small smile, “Everyone else here? Their family is here. Mine can do without me for one family get together. I wanted to be here for you, and for Claudia, and even HG.”

He was the sweetest guy ever, and though they were not fully paying attention, Myka could see appreciative smiles spreading across Claudia and Helena’s faces as they half-heard what Pete had said.

“You’re a good man, Pete Lattimer,” Myka said approvingly, smiling into her plate of food. She never really had trouble with that here, but with the constant fear of Helena being taken away at any moment, Myka had had a lot of trouble eating the past few days. She was trying to put on a good show, moving her food around and actually eating what she could, but even Leena’s delicious cooking was making her stomach turn and she felt horrible about it.

At least she’d probably be able to allow herself to eat the pie.

They’d made it last night, coming down hours after they’d promised to be there. Helena was a surprisingly good cook for a Victorian woman, and upon Myka’s prodding had admitted that she’d always felt a little silly, eating meals prepared by someone else. She’d cooked for Woolly, she’d explained, because both he and the friend (and the _friend_ was obviously quite a lot more than that despite being very obviously male, Myka was impressed by the sheer number of queer people Helena had surrounded herself with in the 1890s) were terrible cooks.

“I did not know that it was possible to burn the tea kettle, but Woolly managed it somehow. I would go over there after leaving the warehouse and make sure that they’d been fed at least one proper meal a day,” Helena had shrugged, flour on her nose as she crumbled the butter and flour together with just a hint of ice water to make the pie crust. “I think Woolly found it terribly embarrassing.”

Myka, however, found the whole thing adorable.

It was a pumpkin pie, they’d used a can of pumpkin and Helena had gotten the time a little off so they’d had to put it back into the oven and resume their conversation. They talked about their lives together, how Helena leaving would impact whatever future they had together. Myka was so worried that things would not be the same for them, but Helena had promised that it would be better.

“I am awfully mad, and the madness is punctuated with long periods of unbearable sanity,” Helena had explained as they let the pie cool in the open oven.

“Poe, fitting,” Myka had rolled her eyes at that comment, and had pulled Helena back down into the stool beside her. “Please don’t say that. You are as sane as I am.”

“Most of the time,” Helena had muttered darkly.

The conversation had changed then, and Myka did not try and steer it back to the topic that Helena obviously did not want to discuss. She would, when the time came. Patience above all other things.

Control what you can.

Myka was just grateful, she realized as she sat at the table with the rest of her family, that Helena was able to be here. That they could all be together, that the moment was not going to be ruined by the painful ache of one of their own missing.

“So when does HG get to take me out in the field?” Claudia demanded from the other side of the table.

Artie sipped his wine, expression serene, “When pigs fly, Claudia.”

Claudia’s face fell, and Helena patted her on the shoulder with a bemused smile. “Don’t you have to complete your studies before you are allowed a badge?” She was greeted with Claudia’s tongue and a rather dirty look.

Myka smiled. This was home.

The dinner was cleared away, Myka helping with the dishes. They loaded them into the dishwasher, Pete scrubbing at the turkey pan for a few minutes half-heartedly before they all agreed to let it soak overnight in the sink.

“When did you guys make the pie?” Joshua asked. He’d arrived from Switzerland the previous afternoon when they’d been off getting supplies. The time change was such that he’d just gone to bed, hoping to adjust before today’s festivities. Myka didn’t blame him, because he’d traveled back in time, rather than forward. It had been close to two in the morning in his mind by the time he’d arrived at Leena’s.

“Last night, you were sacked out,” Myka explained, pulling down small plates from the cupboard over the stove. Helena was counting out forks and handing them to Claudia as she took three more out of the dishwasher and moved to wash them, her movements quick and precise. “It was nice.”

“You guys are all ninja-y with your magical pie making after disappearing all evening,” Pete grumbled, his head stuck in the refrigerator. “It smelled _so_ good.”

“And now you can enjoy it with the rest of us,” Myka pointed out as Pete surfaced with a gallon jug of apple cider. Had she not hidden the pie, it would probably be half-gone by now, eaten by Pete on a midnight snack run.

They headed back into the dining room, laughing as Claudia flicked the water off of the forks that Helena had washed at Pete. Leena and Artie were sitting at the table, the pie between them, staring the darkly dressed and somber-looking form of Mrs. Frederic.

“Agent Wells,” Mrs. Frederic said, stepping into the light. Her face was hard and drawn, almost angry-looking. Myka shifted closer to Helena, unsure of what was happening.

Helena’s hands were shaking.

“It is time.”

That was that, and Myka knew it.

“You won’t even stay for pie?” Pete asked, eyes wide. “That’s _harsh_ Mrs. F.”

Myka admired him for trying, but the thin line of Mrs. Frederic’s lips and the way that Helena was already walking towards the door meant business that Myka did not think even Pete’s good attitude could deter.

“I am sorry, Agent Lattimer,” Mrs. Frederic said quietly. “There simply isn’t time.”

The plates hit the table in a clatter and Myka brushed around Mrs. Frederic. The hallway was empty; Helena was standing at the base of the stairs, her hand clenched around the banister.

It was a silent moment. Helena’s hands found Myka’s, and then Myka found herself pulled into a very uncharacteristically tight hug. Helena never was this clingy, but as Myka felt her shirt getting bunched up and into Helena’s fists – she realized that this was the goodbye she feared.

Helena did not trust herself to speak.

Myka would have to say the words for the pair of them.

“I will be here when you get back,” Myka spoke, her nose buried in Helena’s hair. “I promise you.”

“I love you,” Helena’s grip relaxed, and Myka stepped back, their eyes meeting. There was such intensity in Helena’s eyes, Myka felt as though Helena was looking into her soul.

She leaned forward, her lips brushing against Helena’s, fingers resting hesitantly on Helena’s shoulders. “I love you, always.”

Mrs. Frederic was there then, her hand firm on Helena’s shoulder, urging her to get her coat. She would need little else. Myka’s hand slipped from Helena’s, smoothing down the collar on her coat, straightening her scarf.

“Come, it is time.”

Helena’s lips ghosted against Myka’s cheek, and she turned, and followed Mrs. Frederic out of the bed and breakfast.


	14. Reunion - Or, The Artificer and the Bibliophile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein there are awkward first dates, first meetings and reunions. Not to mention kissing in public places.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'ed by the lovely spockette.

She thought that she’d be able to cope, and for the first month, Myka was pretty sure that she was coping well. The days seemed to blend together, Claudia was stressing about enrolling in South Dakota State for the January term, Pete was debating going home for Christmas (Myka wasn’t – it was too soon) and their usual jet-setting around the world to retrieve artifacts had slowed to almost a crawl as they found themselves rather snowed in.

Living on the East Coast had spoiled Myka. There was nothing quite like a Midwestern blizzard to make you want to curl up under about fifteen blankets and read Alexandre Dumas. Pete said that she was weird and offered to take her sledding, Myka ignored him. She’d always wanted a big brother who was foolish enough to venture _outside_ during white-out conditions to go play. She offered to tie a line off the back porch so he wouldn’t get lost and was answered with a pillow tossed at her head.

She wasn’t coping, as the holiday passed (and they were dragged away on a terribly disturbing case in LA involving an artifact from the Christmas Day Armistice in 1914) and December turned into January. Myka found herself moping, reading through Helena’s notes from Warehouse 12, trying to find something that would make the pang of longing in her heart abate. There was a void there, stark and empty, and Myka hated it.

They had seen Mrs. Frederic exactly once since Helena had been taken to wherever it was that Mrs. Frederic was taking her. Myka had inquired as to her lover’s health (as was polite) and had received a cryptic answer that all would be well in time.

She hated that it was apparently fundamentally impossible to get a straight answer out of any of the regents, or Mrs. Frederic.

The waiting game, it seemed, was here to stay.

Myka wasn’t patient though. She _hated_ waiting.

This would take time, she knew, but it was time that she did not want to take.

A selfish wish, no doubt.

She was not coping.

Pete and Claudia understood and simply tried to be supportive and distracting. Leena, however, would try and get Myka to talk about things. About Helena, about how this all had happened, but Myka couldn’t find the words to say all that needed to be said. Leena wasn’t the person she needed to be saying those things to, anyway.

One morning in mid-February, Myka was in the process of cataloguing a particularly nasty artifact that burned your skin clean off if you were not careful with it on Artie’s computer when he walked up beside her and sat down in the vacant chair next to her. “I think you should take some time off,” He said, apropos of nothing.

She blinked, saved her work, and turned to look at him. “Why?” It seemed a reasonable question. Myka hated the idea that he did not think her work was good enough. That was unacceptable; she had never been anything if not completely professional while working here.

“You need a break. Go, see your family or whatever it is that you do when you’re not here,” Artie shoved a plane ticket into her hands and let his fingers linger on Myka’s forearm. “I’m not sending you away,” he promised, eyes softening behind his glasses.

It sure felt like he was. But Myka was pretty sure that she understood what Artie was doing. “Have you heard anything?” She asked, concern flooding her features. If they were sending her away it meant that there was something wrong with Helena’s recovery, that she might not be doing as well as was initially hoped.

He raised an eyebrow at her and half-shrugged, scooting his chair closer to the computer console. “It is next to impossible to get anything out of the Regents, you know that.”

Myka scowled, “I was really hoping that they’d let her write to me.”

Artie patted Myka’s shoulder. “Me too, Myka, me too.”

The ticket was for the next day, and the weather report simply called for bitter cold, not blizzards. Myka was sure that she could fly out, no problem. Colorado Springs. What had once been _home._

Myka had promised Helena that she wouldn’t go back there, but there were things that she needed to say to her father that could not be said over the phone. Not to mention the fact that she’d lied about being busy over Christmas and the guilt was starting to get to her. She’d ended up working anyway, but when she’d first told them, it hadn’t been true.

Calling her mom and seeing if it was alright if she came home for a while was surprisingly easy. The lies about how Helena and Pete and everyone else were doing fell off her lips effortlessly and when Myka threw her bag into the back of the car, she didn’t even look back.

Maybe she did have to get away from home for a little while, as her heart clearly wasn’t there.

x

Myka had been home for exactly two days (almost to the minute) when her mother set her up on a blind date.

Apparently, the phrase, ‘Mom, I’m seeing someone’ was somehow lost in translation between the generations and Myka wanted absolutely nothing to do with whomever it was that her mother had directed her to the coffee shop to meet and converse with. Myka intended to go, say hello, and then stalk off like an angry teenager. Because that was how she felt right now.

Helena might not be _here_ , here, but they were seeing each other, and goddammit that meant something.

The whole thing made her want to just go back to the Warehouse and cut her forced vacation short because her parents were awful and no matter how hard Myka tried to talk about her problems, it just _didn’t work._ They wanted nothing to do with them.

It wasn’t that her mother didn’t care; it was that she didn’t understand what it meant to be queer and to love another woman. Her mother probably thought she and Helena sat around and drank tea all day – love probably never even factored into her mother’s mental picture of the relationship that Myka and Helena had.

Still, her mother could see the hurt in Myka. Myka wasn’t an idiot; she didn’t lock her emotions away from her mother. Her father tried to goad them out of her with words and quick jabs at her morale, and Myka locked them away from him with skill born of many years of doing just that. Her mother, though, her mother didn’t understand how Myka was obviously hurting and in desperate need of some mothering. Myka was used to this; Tracy had been as well, once upon a time.

While her father had never been one to mince words when it came to how he felt about his children, their mother was a far more complex individual. Myka remembered Tracy sneaking into her room not long after Myka had started her senior year of high school. She was still nursing the most embarrassing crush on Kurt Smoller, and Tracy was in love with Kurt’s wide out, Issac Jamison.

This was further complicated by the fact that Myka was already struggling with her sexuality, and that she wasn’t even entirely sure that she even liked men that way. She’d never been attracted to a guy before, just girls. It was strange, conflicting, and made Myka feel like she was keeping impending heterosexuality like a dirty secret.

Tracy had asked her that night, if either of their parents loved them.

Myka hadn’t had the answer. There wasn’t one as far as she was concerned. Her dad was a hard-ass and her mother apologized for it. She realized that someday, down the road when they were all grown up, that perhaps there’d be some sort of rhyme and reason that they’d be able to pull for their complicated childhood.

She wasn’t Milo, and there was no tollbooth, however. It wasn’t as easy as simply saving the day and having the guiding principles of reason and rhyme return to the world. Myka didn’t know what to do as she sat across the table from her mother and listened to her mother telling her all about how she’d run into so-and-so’s mother, who had mentioned that person x from Myka’s high school days was also back in town and that wouldn’t it be cute if he and Myka got together because they’d obviously had a thing for each other back in high school.

Myka wanted to scream, take her Tesla (still shoved down the back of her pants as a precaution) and shoot something.

Probably her mother.

“I’ll go,” Myka said after a very pointed look from her mother. “I’ll go and I’ll play nice and I’ll tell whoever it is that I’m not interested.”

Myka didn’t add that she would probably point out to whomever it was that she was currently in a relationship with another woman. She knew the politics of this particular city quite well, if there was anything that was sure to scandalize, it would be Warren Bering’s one surviving daughter being involved with a woman.

The date was the following morning, at a coffee shop that Myka had frequented in high school because it was too hole-in-the-wall for anyone to know about, save for the kids who went to CU-Colorado Springs. And even then, the college scene usually didn’t arrive until later in the afternoon.

Myka had thrown on clothes, shifting through her luggage and picking a shirt and pants at random, not particularly caring that the shirt was Helena’s and the sleeves were too short or that it was horribly wrinkled and probably should have been ironed before she put it on. Her jeans were the old and faded pair that she’d been favoring as of late. Helena had mentioned, once, how she did not understand how Levi Strauss & Co. had managed to make such uncomfortable trousers so popular. Myka had attempted to explain to her that the process by which one made jeans had advanced quite a bit since her day – but Helena had wanted nothing to do with it. It was a silly argument, as Myka knew that Helena owned at least one pair of jeans.

As it turned out, the date was with someone that Myka had actually liked, back in high school. While the shock of this fact turning out be true was a little shocking, she hadn’t expected to see Kurt Smoller again so soon.

“Well this is awkward,” she said, setting her coffee down in front of him and plopping into the chair that he’d toed out and away from the table when she’d approached him.

Kurt raised an eyebrow, “I’ll say.” He inclined his head. “Hi Myka.”

“My mom seems to think we’d make a good couple,” Myka laughed, feeling no embarrassment at admitting this fact. “Hey Kurt.”

Maybe, once upon a time, she had had a crush on the man before her. But that had been a long time ago, when she was a far younger. She’d changed a lot since then, or at least she hoped she had.

“Awkward, huh?” Kurt added sugar to his coffee and eyed Myka, waiting for her to make the first move, to start this conversation or to walk away. Whichever was easier.

Myka stared around at the battered walls of the coffee stop, taking in the homey décor that could only be described as shabby chic. The kind that college students loved and that everyone else despised because honestly, what was the point of it? She frowned, staring hard at a poster advertising a band’s upcoming performance. It had been there, in the same place, the last time Myka had been into this particular coffee shop, some five years ago. Nothing here ever changed. “It’s weird, to be home, like this.” She admitted, sipping her coffee.

Kurt nodded, “Why are you?” He glanced at his watch, “The reunion was barely… uh… four months ago – most people who get out of here tend to avoid it for years at a time if they can get away with it.”

 _Oh right, the reunion where Pete somehow managed to get Kurt to kiss him. In_ my _body._ Myka’s brow twitched. She had emailed Kurt and explained that she had not been herself that night and he had agreed – saying that there was no way a straight chick could care that much about the Rockies.

Myka was inclined to agree, although she did follow them passively. She cared far more for the Broncos and their tragic awfulness.

She shrugged. “Some stuff at work, I took some time off.” Outside it was brilliantly sunny, snowy and bitterly cold. She gestured outside, coat sleeve pulling upwards, revealing how short her shirtsleeves were on her arm. “South Dakota is awful in the winter, anyway.”

And it was. Myka had grown up on Colorado winters and she could not believe how awful they were in the middle-of-nowhere South Dakota. She wasn’t exactly used to bundling up under two jackets when braving the fifteen minute drive to work after living on the East Coast. Colorado Springs got cold, yes, but when she found that her car wouldn’t start most mornings without some extreme tinkering, Myka wondered if she’d been relocated to Siberia, not somewhere in the lower forty-eight.

Being that cold simply wasn’t natural.

Kurt nodded his agreement, shifting his weight and tugging at the sleeves of his thermal top – just sticking out from under his sweater. Myka wondered if he felt as awkward as she did, sitting there, trying to figure out what to say to someone that she hadn’t truly _known_ since she was seventeen.

“It’s bad enough here, I can’t imagine it any further north.” Kurt shrugged, glancing over at her, his expression suddenly appearing to be almost shy. He thought about something for a moment, lips drawing a thin line, before he exhaled, and quickly blurted out, “Myka… I always got the feeling that you were kinda… you know, into me… in high school.”

Myka laughed. “No, I never was, not really anyway. Maybe a little, freshman year, but after that you just never judged me for not really being interested.” She smiled at him, fingers cradled around her coffee. “It was really nice,” she added. “Thank you.”

“So are you seeing anyone?” Kurt asked, “Since you obviously are here for your mom and not for my wonderful company.”

She stuck her tongue out at him. “It is nice to catch up with you again, Kurt. My mom has nothing to do with that.” She nodded her agreement to his question however. She didn’t see the harm in telling him – he had been a good friend in high school, and had _never_ let any of the guys on his team beat up on the few out queer kids in school. Besides, that would make this considerably less awkward, if he knew that there was pretty much no way in hell that she’d be interested in whatever it was that her mother had intended for the endgame of this excursion to be. “Yes, someone I met in New York when I was teaching. We work together now.”

“He nice?”

Myka sipped her coffee and smiled, her lips curling upwards as though relishing a private joke. “She’s lovely. Wonderful.”

Kurt’s eyes widened and he slapped the table, grinning wolfishly. “Oh!” He said in realization, before leaning back, tipping his chair away from the table, hands shoved in his pockets. “Wow, little Myka Bering… No wonder you ditched this place.”

Well, that was one reason. He knew that she worked for the secret service, that she did more with her life than many of her classmates. They did still talk through email on occasion, and he was pretty good with the conversation as she told him a little bit about how she’d left the Midwest all together to go to the East Coast after Sam’s death.

She nodded her agreement. “That’s one reason, yeah.” There were so many others, Myka didn’t even know where to begin. She had spent years avoiding this place, only coming home when she had to; her father and Tracy’s memory the only things that truly kept her away. “I came back – this place has a lot of old wounds. I needed healing time.”

There was a concerned look in Kurt’s eyes, “Your parents are okay with it?”

Myka wondered about that sometimes. There were two sides to every coin. Her mother had listened when she’d spoken of Helena’s problems (in the loosest, most vague sense she could), and had offered sympathy over Christina’s loss. Myka supposed that that truly was something, even if she was sitting across from a guy her mother had set her up on a blind date with. She shrugged, “They don’t seem to mind Helena, at least.”

“That’s her name?”

“Yes. Helena Wells.” Myka nodded and sipped her coffee. “She’s from just outside of London.”

He smiled at her then, real and genuine. It was the smile that Myka remembered once finding very attractive and distracting as she helped Kurt muddle his way through freshman algebra. “I’d love to meet the girl that won your heart, Myka. Anyone good enough for you must be real special.”

“Thanks.” She grinned back at him.

He leaned forward then, fingers closing around the hand that she had rested on the table. They were warm, Myka shifted, wondering if it was inappropriate, if she should draw her hand away. “No, I really mean it.” Kurt said seriously. “Seeing you at the reunion and talking to you there, I really saw how you’ve grown up. You’re beautiful. I’m glad you’re happy.”

“Thank you Kurt, really. It means more to me than you know.”

x

Myka was half-buried in a research project a week later, following a hunch that her father had suggested when she posed a question about Bram Stoker and some of the implications of how the vampire mythos had come into being. She had several books propped open against the counter of the bookshop, furiously taking notes and pretending above all things that she was not a former college professor who still had aspirations of getting articles published in journals on occasion.

She’d wrapped up and submitted a piece for publishing the week before. Inspiration had hit her after her awkward (and yet nice) coffee date with Kurt Smoller They were going to stay in touch, never speak of what Pete had done in Myka’s body again, and just be friends. It was good; Myka needed friends who were not connected to the warehouse in any way, shape, or form.

This subject was something that both Myka and her father found fascinating, and they’d managed to have an actual _civil_ conversation about it. It had involved old books and old dead men, yes, but it was intriguing and fascinating and Myka was now taking copious notes just so that she could have another such conversation with her father later on.

Maybe she was a fool, but she did want to find something that she could connect to the man about. Be it literature or otherwise, he was still her father, no matter how much he’d hurt her.

It was early, and a Friday. No one had been into the shop yet this morning. Her father was out of town for the weekend, going to an estate sale some five hours from here, and Myka was in charge of the shop.

It was strange, because a part of her had always thought that she’d end up running Bering and Sons someday. Tracy had wanted to, but Myka loved the books so much more than Tracy ever had.

So she was minding the shop, reading old poems by obscure authors, and looking for common threads to pull together something that could pass as a research topic and thesis. Her dad had liked the other article she’d written, commenting that Myka had an uncanny understanding of early science fiction. She’d swelled with pride when he’d said that.

There was the sound of a car driving by and Myka glanced out the window disinterestedly, wondering who was up at nine thirty on a Friday morning when she was only halfway through her first cup of coffee. She nearly dropped her coffee mug when she saw Pete get out of the car that had parked just outside.

What was he doing here? Why didn’t he call?

Her eyes narrowed as another man got out of the car as well, cracked his neck and stretched his hands over his head.

 _Who the hell is that?_ She thought, setting her coffee down and waiting to see what would happen.

Pete glanced around, as if he was on a covert, top-secret mission, before ducking into the shop. Myka stared at him over her glasses, frowning.

“Mykes!” He said excitedly, bounding over to her and stepping around the counter (employees only, there was a sign and everything) and pulling her into a bear hug. “Good to see you!”

The other man with Pete lingered by the door, looking awkward and uncomfortable as Myka rested her head on Pete’s shoulder. She did rather like Pete’s hugs, big brotherly and loving as they were. “Hey Pete,” she said quietly.

He pulled away, smoothing her hair out of her face and grinning brightly at her. “You would not believe this case…” He began just as Myka started to speak as well.

“So… who’s that?” She pointed to the guy who had now taken off his hat and was stomping bits of snow out of his boots on the welcome mat by the door.

Pete glanced over his shoulder, gesturing for the guy to come closer. He looked impossibly young, blond, and probably an FBI or ATF agent judging by the way he was standing (it was a very distinctive stance). Myka’s brow furrowed and she frowned at the newcomer before turning her attention back to Pete.

“That… is my New Myka. Steve, this is Old Myka.” He pointed to the guy – Steve, and then to Myka, as if that was all the introduction that was needed.

It wasn’t, and Myka’s face pulled even further into a frown. “Pete…” Myka’s voice was low and full of warning. “Why is he here?”

 _Why am I being replaced?_ The thought came unbidden to her mind almost as quickly as the worry over Helena’s status at the warehouse came into her mind. This was so not good.

She didn’t think that Artie would do that to her, to Helena. But he had never fully warmed up to Helena.

Pete laughed, “He’s HG’s new partner, for when she comes back.” He clapped Myka on the shoulders in a ‘don’t you worry your little head about it’ sort of way and smiled encouragingly at Myka as her face visibly brightened.

The new guy, Steve, frowned; brow furrowing and suddenly looking far older than Myka guessed he was. “Who’s HG? I thought I was gunna be working with an Agent Wells.”

“HG is Agent Wells, Steve.” Pete turned to look at Myka with a more serious expression on his face. “Artie doesn’t want you two working together, seems to think that you’ll get emotionally compromised.”

She supposed that Artie was right, but Myka had sort of passively assumed that they’d all go into the field together. An extra pair of hands on sight during some of their field missions would be completely wonderful at times, and a vital necessity at others. She did understand, even if the phrase ‘emotionally compromised’ sounded like something out of one of Pete’s comic books, rather than an actual state of being.

Myka wasn’t sure if she could put neutralizing an artifact before Helena’s life or safety. Pete’s either, but that was another matter entirely.

Pete had once said that he wasn’t worried about dying alone, because Myka was usually within ten feet of him, so they’d share the same fate. It was a little morbid, but heartening.

“He’s right.” Myka folded her arms across her chest and nodded. She turned to Steve and tried to smile at him, but the fact that Helena wasn’t there was still an open wound in her heart and the words to express just how much Myka missed her did not come easily. She swallowed, “Helena… should be back soon.”

Steve looked from Pete to Myka and then back again. His lips pulled downwards in annoyance. Myka wondered just how much he had been told before being sent out into the field on his first retrieval. She remembered her first, and how awful it had been, not knowing much of anything and just sort of following Pete around with a confused expression on her face. Pete was good for that, she supposed, and they’d found that magical pair of sports shorts regardless.

“Okay, seriously, who is this person I’m supposed to be working with if it’s not you?” Steve didn’t really sound annoyed, just weary and confused.

“Helena Wells,” Myka supplied, taking pity on him. She didn’t approve of how Artie never bothered to explain anything to anyone. He was of the mindset that the best way to prepare for the unknown was to go in blind, so you would not be shocked or amazed by _anything_ that you might happen to witness. It was a good tactic, but people usually ended up getting hurt in the process, and Myka couldn’t abide by that.

Steve nodded, apparently someone had told him the name, at least. That was a start. Myka added, feeling a little awkward because it wasn’t really her place to be revealing such personal details. “She’s ah… a unique warehouse agent. Sort of like a time traveler.”

Pete clapped Steve on the shoulder, causing him to jump. “Only time travel doesn’t exist,” he pointed out gleefully. “Artie says so.”

Well, _they’d_ disproved that theory.

“Shut up Pete.” Myka muttered under her breath, glaring at him. She was daring him to take it one step further, to tell Steve about what Helena had nearly done. She would hit him then, and he wouldn’t like it. He never did. “Anyway, she was trapped in bronze, held in stasis for close to one hundred years.”

A wide grin spread across Pete’s face as he leaned forward to whisper in a scandalous tone, “Actually, it was carbonite.”

Again? With the Star Wars? Myka rolled her eyes and kicked him in the shin. “Shut up Pete.”

He gave her a wounded look, and she shook her head. She wasn’t going to play the puppy dog eyes game with him again. Bastard always won.

“So… I will be working with Agent Wells?” Steve asked. Myka wondered if he was so overwhelmed by his reassignment that he was having trouble processing basic facts. It wasn’t that hard to figure out really.

At least, Myka hoped she hadn’t been that obtuse when first introduced to the Warehouse.

“Yes, when she gets back.” Pete said. He was pulling a file out the backpack that Myka hadn’t noticed he’d slung over one shoulder, fishing through it, pulling out some papers and holding them in his mouth until he could work his hands free. Myka was a little grossed out by that, and reminded herself, yet again, that nothing was safe when Pete was around. “She’s on leave right now,” Pete continued, setting the papers on the counter next to Myka’s coffee cup, “Getting her head all shrinkydinked.”

It was going to come out soon or later, but it wasn’t there place to say. Myka put a warning hand on Pete’s shoulder and shook her head, “I’m sure if Helena wants to tell you about it, she will, Steve.” She gave him a small smile, before picking up her coffee mug and leaning over the pictures on the table. “So what’s this case, can I help?”

“Artie said to leave you alone. You’re on vay-cay, Mykes.” Pete said, leaning over the papers as if he was trying to obscure them from her view.

“Oh.” Myka said, pulling the report and crime scene photographs out from under Pete’s elbow in a gesture born of far too much practice. She flipped through them disinterestedly until she found a line of what appeared to be poetry. She said it under her breath a few times, wondering what this could possibly have to do with William Shakespeare.

“But we’re … ah, really stuck, so, uh, help?” Pete added.

Myka poked him in the shoulder, pushing her glasses back up her nose with her free hand. “Admit it, you’d be lost without me.”

“Never!”

Myka shook her head at Pete and grinned at Steve over the photograph in her hand. “It’s nice to meet you, by the way, I’m Myka Bering.”

“Steve Jinks.” He said, offering up his hand and Myka took it.

Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all. Helena could use a guy who seemed as even-keeled as Steve as a partner, it might prevent her from doing crazy insane things.

The case, as it turned out, wasn’t really nearly as bad as Pete had made it out to be. Sure, people were dying, and it was basically just a huge game of Shakespeare trivia, but not a bad case. Myka had had to go upstairs and make sure her mother was alright to mind the shop for the day while she followed Steve and Pete the two hour and change drive up to Denver. She’d been shooed out of the house so quickly that Myka thought she was being disowned, not encouraged to go out and do her job.

Still, after being idle for nearly two weeks, it felt good to be back in the field, to help people. She’d saved lives, she realized as she drove back, saved the lives of several people who would have otherwise been killed by that folio of illustrations of the final scenes of Shakespeare’s work. Pete had asked, as she’d gotten ready to leave, if she’d be coming home soon.

Myka had not had an answer. She wanted to say yes. Because it felt good and right to be a warehouse agent, to do what they did. But it was an empty feeling. A part of her was missing and Myka did not think that she could go back until she could at least _talk_ to Helena and see how she was doing. Nearly three months of silence and the absence was killing her slowly.

She pulled into a rest area and got out of her mother’s SUV, heading inside to where the sign promised hot coffee and facilities. The line was short and the coffee was piss-awful, but it did its job and Myka was distracted from her melancholy for a long and drawn-out moment.

She missed Helena, missed her with every fiber of her being. She hadn’t been aware that the ache would be so acute, that she’d be so lost without her lover.

They had done this before, and it had been alright then.

So much had changed in that short a period of time.

When she arrived home, Myka sat in the car for several long and drawn-out moments with her head bent and pressed against the steering wheel, simply breathing. She didn’t know why she felt so overwhelmed with everything. Everyone else was moving on, helping the new hire get acclimated, but Myka felt as though she was stuck, lingering in a life that had been brutally ripped away from her.

Helena should not mean this much to her. It was illogical, impractical, not to mention probably a little obsessive to love someone so much. And yet, here Myka was, struggling with the fact that she really was not coping at all.

She slammed the car door on her way out, watching as it rattled before hitting the lock button on her mother’s keys. She had to get her head into the right place.

x

On the last day of February, Myka had decided that sitting around at home moping would not solve any of her problems. She was gathering her things, packing up the books that she had brought with her and borrowed from her father, when it finally happened. After three full months of waiting, Myka found herself jumping out of her skin as Mrs. Frederic walked through the front door of Bering and Sons completely unannounced.

Myka looked around, suddenly grateful that her father had gone upstairs to get her suitcase – her flight was in three hours – she was going to need to leave soon.

“Agent Bering, it is time.” Mrs. Frederic said, shifting slightly so that Myka could see that she was not alone. Myka’s eyes widened and her face erupted into a grin.

The books in her hands suddenly seemed inconsequential as Myka hastily shoved them back onto the counter. She crossed the room quickly, stepping around Mrs. Frederic, who had a bemused smile on her face.

Honestly, if there was ever a time for restraint, this would be it, but Myka had gone far too long with no contact and Mrs. Frederic could deal with it.

“Hello Myka,” Helena said quietly.

“Hey,” Myka’s face softened, and when Helena’s hand reached out to grasp her own, Myka felt her smile grow even wider.

Helena’s hand was cool, a normal temperature in her hand. It seemed that the long-term effects of the bronzer had finally worn off, and Helena’s body was relatively returned to normal. There was a warmth in her eyes and a smile about Helena’s lips that made Myka want to lean in and kiss them. She couldn’t, not in front of Mrs. Frederic.

Well, maybe she could.

Myka leaned forward, pressing her lips against Helena’s cheek, before she found herself abruptly pulled into a very tight and desperate-feeing hug. Helena smelled like the compressed air of an airplane, and Myka didn’t care.

“I missed you so much,” She whispered.

Helena’s only response was to pull Myka in even closer.

“Agent Wells has passed her evaluations with flying colors,” Mrs. Frederic said quietly, bringing them both back to reality. “We were hoping that she could travel with you back home.”

Myka smiled, “I think we can arrange that.”

Helena grinned back at her.

“I will be in touch,” Mrs. Frederic said, nodding at the pair of them before walking out of the bookshop like a perfectly normal person, not some timeless guardian of the warehouse.

The door closed and suddenly there was a moment where everyone was _exceedingly_ awkward. Myka shoved her hands into her pockets and finally had a moment to really look at Helena.

“So uh… all that?” Myka gestured to Helena’s battered jeans and loose fitting white tee that made her look like she’d just fallen out of the nineties and not the _eighteen nineties._ Myka had half a mind to loan her a flannel shirt – just to complete the utter ridiculousness of the look.

Helena grinned sheepishly. “I do feel rather exposed.” She rubbed her arms, shivering in the bookstore’s cool air. Myka’s father was always a little skimpy on the heat during the spring, he figured it was warm enough for the snow to melt; they could cut down on the heating costs. It was _February_ though, not even technically spring.

Also he was a firm believer in layers, of which Helena was currently only wearing one.

“Part of my therapy,” Helena continued, meeting Myka’s questioning gaze. “Acclimating myself to the times.”

Myka stared down at her hands. “I liked how you dressed… before.”

“I did as well, darling. Now, get me out of this place and home so that I may get out of these awful modern trousers.” She glanced around, eyes narrowing. “I thought that you said that you would not come back here.”

“Artie made me take a vacation,” Myka explained, crossing back over to the counter and collecting the last of her books. “To clear my head. This was where the plane ticket took me.”

Comprehension flew across Helena’s face and she nodded. “Have you been well?”

“Just lonely,” Myka explained, stuffing books into her carry-on. “Come on, we’re going to miss the plane.

x

It was easier to talk when not in the shadow of her father’s house. Myka asked Helena about her time with the regents, and Helena had explained the process of getting one’s emotions stripped with the aide of an artifact and then carefully reapplied one by one. It sounded gruesome, unpleasant, and not something that Myka would wish on anyone, but Helena seemed to have accepted that it was a necessary evil.

“Truthfully, I did not want to have them taken from me, but they assured me that I would be given every emotion back exactly as I’d left it,” Helena explained as the plane bore them closer to the snowy wasteland that they called home. “I think that it just adjusted my perspective a bit. I’ve had my revenge; it is now a time to heal.”

“I wish that they’d let me write to you,” Myka grumbled. Their hands had been locked together since they’d boarded the plane and Myka did not see that changing any time soon. It felt good, right, safe. And Myka liked it that way.

She’d felt so out of control the past few weeks. Being home, trying to make nice with her dad. Everything seemed to be working out, but there had been one thing lacking, the thread of her ability to feel in control of her life. Now, with Helena back, Myka was hopeful that things would go back to normal in that regard as well.

She told Helena about Steve Jinks, her new partner. About how Pete had tried to go play in a blizzard, about the Christmas Day Armistice artifact that they’d found in LA. She was just catching her up on the details of how Claudia’s first month of classes had gone at State when Helena kissed her.

There were three other people on the plane. Pierre Regional in the middle of February was not was not exactly the most desired of destinations, especially not out of Colorado Springs.

Myka kissed Helena back, fingers threading through soft hair.

There were things that could be said in a kiss that could not be said in words. Myka had read enough books to know that as fact, but when Helena’s lips pressed against her own, Myka realized something else entirely.

 _You are my home._

And that was the greatest feeling in the world.

 ****

The End  
 _Or is it?_


End file.
